


between the breaths

by obelisk13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 100,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obelisk13/pseuds/obelisk13
Summary: In which Neville finds the room of requirement two years earlier and also finds an unlikely friend.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 88
Kudos: 237





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as you can tell i kinda pried canon away from jkr's cold dead hands. i tried my best to stick to canon timeline but also i made up my own stuff as i went along lmao ill add more tags as the chapters progress

It was a rainy September evening as Draco hopped off the train, clutching the Daily Prophet still rolled up in his hand, the bloody Weasel family, plastered over the front page. That had really put his father in a bad mood, only giving him a firm pat on the shoulder on the platform at King’s Cross, “ _Don't disappoint us, Draco._ ” His father had enunciated every syllable that still reverberated around his head as the train horn signaled its leave. 

“First the train stops in the middle of nowhere and freezes us nearly to death, now we got dementors flying around the castle,” Draco grumbled to Theodore Nott, trailing along after him, “Are we really expected to live in this prison?”

A swift breeze fluttered by as the same sleeping teacher from inside Potter’s cabin rushed through the crowd of students leaving the station. The tall thin man wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes that only emphasized his sickly frame, “And now we’ve got this hobo teaching classes. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t going to make us learn how to dumpster dive.”

He paid close attention to the slight twitch in the neck of the shabby professor, turning his head slightly as if he’d heard his comment, but never faltering in his step towards the castle.

Theodore grinned, showing off his yellow, snaggly teeth, “Hah! I bet.”

His family had known the Notts for generations. He’d been friends with Theodore since before they could even talk. Although his company was far more intellectually stimulating than Crabbe or Goyle, he still managed to come off as somewhat of a creep. But he was better than nothing. 

Making their way towards the carriages, Draco spotted a group of Gryffindors; a tall and lanky boy laughing at whatever story a very short and spiky haired boy was telling, gesturing with wild animation, and a round, timid boy, carrying a fat toad in one hand and a small potted plant in the other.

“Ah… I see the freak show is back for another year,” he drawled out as he came to a stop in front of them, “Finnigan, was that you, then, that stopped the train? Did you finally manage to blow up the engine room with your crap wand?”

Seamus glowered up at him, “Shove off.”

He turned back to Thomas but under his breath he still heard, “Christ, the daddy’s boy is back to being a little prat again is he?” The Gryffindors were now stifling their laughter in their cupped hands. It felt like a twig inside him just snapped. He’d pay for that later.

“No worries, Finnegan, I won’t say anything. Won’t be long till they kick you out for blowing something else up equally ridiculous.”

“It wasn’t him, Malfoy,” Dean reached a hand in front of his shorter friend, who looked like a bull about to charge, “Neville says it was Dementors.”

Neville, who had been too entirely occupied with staring at the forest floor, finally raised to meet Draco’s eyes. His soft face had been tinged pink with the eyes turned on him, bangs dangling over his forehead. 

“Care to tell us what happened, Longbottom?” Draco raised his eyebrows, “Or are you still chewing your third breakfast?”

It was a low blow and he knew it, but it still worked on the poor Gryffindor, face getting redder as he stammered out, “I-It was Dementors. They stopped the train and-and came to our cabin; me, Hermione, Ron, and Harry’s. Oh and P-Professor… uh-”

“Lupin, I think?” Dean offered.

“Right, Professor… Professor Lupin.”

“Are you going to keep stuttering through the rest of this? My ears are in danger of bleeding if you keep talking,” Draco spat.

Theodore especially laughed at that, bumping into his shoulder. Neville furrowed his brow, looking away as he sputtered, “The Dementor stopped the train, came into our cabin, and one tried to suck the bloody life out of Harry. He was lucky he only fainted! He could’ve died if it weren’t for Professor Lupin!”

Draco scoffed, “He fainted? The boy who lived actually fainted?”

He and Theodore howled with laughter and his companion squeaked, “More like the boy who fainted!”

\--

Neville felt his face turn as red as a tomato as he realized he’d let slip to the last person on earth who should know about Harry’s fainting. But he found himself staring at the blonde boy tilting his head back, beaming like a ray of sunshine. It was already dark, night glooming through the trees, but with Draco there, Neville didn’t think he’d need a lantern. He was only pulled from this trance when he felt a huff of hot air from behind him. 

He looked up and saw the familiar shape of the ghostly beast. He’d seen them first last year. They had terrified him, the scaley, skeleton horses. And when he had pointed them out to the others, they’d simply shake their head. It was just Neville being his regular self. Neville the scaredy cat. The terrified-of-his-own-shadow kid. 

But he’d asked Hagrid about it last year. Thestrals, he had said, could only be seen by those who’d seen death. He often wondered who else could see them. Possibly Harry? He’d seen his mother die. But he was only a baby. Perhaps you had to have the memory in your mind to be able to see thestrals. Neville had only been ten when he’d first seen death, and there were many times he wished he hadn’t.

Before the three Gryffindors could climb into the carriage, Draco and Theodore pushed through them and hopped inside.

“ _Scintillating_ conversation, fellas. Really lovely catching up with you lot,” Draco looked him right in the eye, “And thanks for the laugh.” He winked and the carriage drew away, carried off by the thestral, up the hill and out of sight.

A shoulder bumped into him, a little less than kind, “Nice going, Nev.”

In the Great Hall, he kept finding his gaze drifting back to the blonde boy over at the Slytherin table, mimicking Harry’s fainting spell. His hand swept over his forehead like a damsel in distress, his face reminiscent of one of those old marble statues in museums. Neville had been forced to visit one every once in a while by his Gran to provide him with “culture,'' as she put it. But the statues. The statues were beautiful. 

Not that Draco was beautiful. He was a deeply ugly person in every way, and not just his personality. His features were pointed, nose always stuck up in the air, sharp eyes piercing from across the room and -- oh gods was he looking at him? Neville only just realized he had been staring so long that Draco had actually stopped mocking Harry and was now squinting at Neville with a confused expression. Neville quickly turned his attention to his plate, jabbing his fork limply.

“Don’t pay attention to that git,” Neville heard Ron mumble, “He’s just jealous he’s not the center of attention.”

“He could do it a bit more quietly is all I’m saying,” Harry grumbled over his goblet.

That night in the boy’s dormitory, they played cards and passed around a box of Bertie Bott’s and Neville had completely forgotten about the dementor and the wink on the hill. Before bed, he pruned his plant’s leaves just as he had done over the summer, reaching over to the nightstand and patting its soil just as he fell asleep. 

He woke up early the next morning, bringing the potted plant to the greenhouses. Sprout had already agreed to let him keep it there where it’d be safer and receive the amount of light it needed to survive. But as he left the greenhouses, heading towards the forest where his first class, Care of Magical Creatures, was waiting, he didn’t realize how soon he’d be back.

Hagrid had picked Draco up from where he laid on the forest floor, crying and bleeding. The rest of the class following behind like some funeral procession back towards the castle, except everyone was either snickering or whispering about whether Hagrid should be fired. 

“Ha! Serves the twat right!” Seamus said, gleefully, like it was Christmas morning, “I mean, did you see his face!” He went on to describe every gruesome detail, as if they hadn’t just seen it for themselves.

But Neville didn’t hear any of it. It hadn’t really been that horrible… had it? 

As they approached the castle, Neville felt his feet veer off towards the greenhouses. 

“Hey? Nev, where you going? Castle’s this way?”

Dean, polite as he was, still thought of Neville as some poor soul who needed a little more help than most, “I’m going to see Professor Sprout. I’ll see you guys later?”

He hiked down and into the houses. Sprout didn’t have a class this hour which meant she was probably was watering the air plants. And there, of course, she was, watering can in hand.

“Neville, lovely to see you again,” She said, “But don’t you have a class right now, love?”

“Do you think- do you think the shrivelfig is ready to be harvested?” He said, moving to the small stem growing out from the pot. His Gran had given it to him over the Summer. A way to keep him busy, he supposed. 

The plant had already produced a few peachy colored figs from its skinny branches, but they were nowhere near the size they were supposed to be if it grew up right. 

“Why the rush? Give it time and you’d get an even healthier lookin’ batch,” Sprout sprayed a bit of water on a pretzel shaped cactus.

“Yes, of course, but, what if it was harvested _now_ , professor? I mean could they work just as well?”

She finally glanced over at the little fig tree, mentally sizing up the tiny fruit that had sprouted, “Well, if one really did need to use em I suppose they _could_ possibly work-”

“Brilliant!” Neville was already plucking off one of the figs.

Sprout eventually helped him find a jar and ended up doing most of the work of removing the seeds and scraping out the gel into the glass. Neville was never very good at these things, it just reminded him of potions, and that just reminded him of Snape, and then he’d get chills running running down his spine, he just couldn’t help it. 

Once Professor Sprout sealed the cap, Neville gave a quick thanks and moved swiftly back into the castle, glad she hadn’t pressed him why he needed the fig so soon. As he walked down to the wing of the hospital, he thought of the way Draco’s shock-white hair had caught the rays of sunlight through the pines and birches just before being knocked to the ground by the half-eagle, half-horse. The look of terror that had flashed on his face and the wholly un-Malfoy shriek he let out was something he never wanted to forget. 

Madame Pomfrey had just waved her hand as he entered, already so acquainted with him from the various injuries he’d gotten over the past two years. She reminded him a little of his grandmother in the same way she cared but without showing it. Or he supposed rather without acting like it. Pomfrey showed she cared by working tirelessly round the clock in order to cure every ache that pained the students. He supposed his grandmother’s way of showing she cared for him was by telling him how different he was from his parents. How utterly surprised she was that he even managed to get into Gryffindor.

He wondered what she might think of him for what he was about to do.

Neville spotted the snobbish blonde curled up in a bed at the far end of the room, his nose was stuck in a book, balanced on the cast of his left hand. When Neville stopped at the edge of his bed, Draco flicked his eyes up, nose wrinkling up as if he’d sniffed Mr. Filch’s cat-piss stained robes, “Longbottom.”

Neville took a sidewards glance towards Pomfrey, who was currently applying a cold compress to a distressed first year, and looked back, “G’morning.”

A silence fell and Neville realized what a terrible idea this had been.

“ _Well_?” Draco seemed to be waiting for him to speak, “What do you want?”

“I um... over the Summer, I found a way to graft Bitterroot with a Shrivelfig stem. I was trying to see if I could make a better healing ointment with what I had in the garden. So I hope you don’t mind being sort of the first test subject,” He gave a weak smile.

At some point during his speech, Draco had gone back to reading and now looked back up from his book, “What are you blathering on about?”

“Um... here,” Neville sat down on the chair beside him, unscrewing the lid. The gel inside was pink and had little green chunks floating around. He offered the jar to him, “It’ll help take the pain away from your arm.”

Draco eyed him suspiciously but grabbed the jar from him anyway, easing his right arm from his sling. It was covered in bandages bound tightly around his forearm but didn’t appear to be twisted at all and Neville wondered why he had put the arm in a cast _and_ sling. Of course, he had overheard Harry, Ron, and Hermione discuss the idea that Malfoy was faking the injury entirely and he had to say he agreed to some extent. 

But he had been there too. He saw the hippogriff’s sharp talons. The blood that stained the leaves long after Draco had been carried away, crying and whimpering, in Hagrid’s arms. He wouldn’t allow himself to look so pathetic willingly, would he?

“You expect me to eat this?” Draco wrinkled his nose as he bent his head down to sniff the contents of the jar.

“Merlin, no! Here uh... just sit still a minute,” Neville took the jar back from him, “Erm... could you remove the bandages?”

Neville didn’t know why he was so scared to touch him. He must’ve thought his skin might be hexed on impact if he even grazed his fingers. It also didn’t help that Neville didn’t really touch people often. He was raised by a woman who was too high-class to hug her only grandson before wishing him goodbye every year. In the hallways he was seen as the ugly, stupid oaf with buck-teeth and moppy hair and girls made sure to give him a wide berth, flinching if they were accidentally pushed into his shoulder by their giggling friends. When he had to share a desk with someone who wasn’t Seamus or Dean, they would keep their books and papers and quills to the farthest side of the table, making quite sure he hadn’t borrowed anything of theirs. He never seemed to know why he had been chosen as the school’s scapegoat. He never tried to question it either. As long as everyone left him alone at the end of the day, he could tolerate the laughs and the jokes directed at him. Of course, Malfoy was the only one who knew how to take it too far.

And here he was trying to mend his arm.

Draco rolled the sleeve up with some difficulty, only using one hand and then stopped suddenly, “Did Potter put you up to this? Is there some sort of rash-inducing jelly in there?” He looked more annoyed than actually worried.

“Huh?” Neville squinted, “No um... look I’ll show you.”

He scooped a finger sized dollop of the gel, rubbing it onto the back of his hand. The skin glowed softly for a moment and glittered before returning to its original color, “See? It’s perfectly harmless. I just want to see if it’ll work on bigger injuries. So far it’s only cured a paper cut and a mosquito bite.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, rolling his eyes, but he held out his arm. Slowly, he peeled the layer of bandages off, hissing as the cut became exposed. Neville let out a breath from his nose he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The gash was much bigger than he’d expected, even from Buckbeak, and he almost wanted to comment on how brave Draco must have been. Almost. The wound was already starting to form itself back together but the skin was still strikingly red and dark purple.

Neville scooped some more gel onto his hand, “So . . . where does it hurt exactly?” 

Draco glared, “Where do _you_ think it hurts?”

“Right . . . uh,” He nodded. 

Neville set the jar on the table beside the bed so he could hold onto Malfoy properly. The cold pale skin sent shivers down his spine as he curled his fingers around his too thin wrist. With his other hand he tried to spread some of the gel across the cut. Draco sucked in another gasp of air, looking out at the large window opposite them. 

Neville glanced up at him, “Um… It doesn’t hurt does it?”

“Shut up and get it over with,” Draco spat, refusing to look at him.

Neville continued to apply the ointment to his forearm. Vaguely, he noticed the prickly, almost translucent wisps of hair that passed under his fingertips. The situation felt entirely too intimate. He could feel his face heating up and was glad Malfoy chose not to look at him.

Once Neville had covered the gash, he sat back in his chair. “How does that feel?” Neville cringed at the way his words sounded, “Any better?”

Draco looked at his now slimy arm, lifting it up. The skin didn’t glow or glitter like Neville’s hand had, “How long does it take to work?”

“Usually only a few seconds but for larger things I’m not so sure.”

Draco scoffed to himself, clearly unimpressed with Neville’s jar of pink slime.

Neville cleared his throat, trying to make himself seem slightly more intimidating than his usual self, “It was just a test. To see if it would work. If I find it only works on smaller wounds, then at least I’ve learned its limitations.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, “Well then, you’ve found your limitations haven’t you. Now would you take your grummy slime and piss off?”

Neville swallowed, honestly surprised he had even gotten this far. Before he could make a bigger fool out of himself, he left the jar on the table and hurried back out of the wing.

\--

When Snape appeared from the cabinet, Neville thought he might be killed on sight. The giant bat of a man was stalking towards him and he looked entirely too realistic for his tastes. The same nauseousness that washed over him during potions returned and he felt sick to his stomach. 

He remembered the words Lupin had said to the class only moments before, as well as the image he’d wanted him to think of. What if this was all an elaborate prank to get Neville to make a fool of himself? What if he had actually gotten the real Professor Snape to emerge from the cabinet and was tricking Neville into single-handedly expelling himself from Hogwarts? What would Gran say when she found out the reason why he was home ten months too early?

“Riddikulus!” He shouted, voice only cracking a bit, flicking his wand up at the boggart.

In a whirl, Snape was seen wearing his Gran’s clothes; her stuffed-vulture hat, oddly shaped purse, ancient green dress, everything. It was incredible. His heart felt light and airy as for once, the class was laughing with him, not at him. Perhaps this year would be different.

Of course, that was all thanks to Lupin. He was the first teacher besides Professor Sprout who saw any spark of hope within him. He looked at Neville like he saw no difference between him and any other student. He looked at Neville like he had just as much talent as anyone else in his year might, and as Lupin patted him on the back shouting, “Nicely done, Longbottom!”, he couldn’t help a tear well up in his eye. 

He wiped it thoroughly of course, careful not to let anyone see he was crying over a little praise - that would do wonders for his already feeble reputation. 

“Alright who’s next?” Lupin called out as everyone formed a line in front of the cabinet, “Ms. Patil?”

Neville shuffled towards the back but was shoved roughly to the side by Malfoy, still in his cast, sneering as he passed him by. 

Was he laughing at him for being afraid of Snape? Was he jealous that he had been the center of attention for once? Was he still grossed out from the healing slime? As Neville stood at the very back of the line, he decided not to dwell too long on it. Rather, another more curious thought had probed his mind. What would Malfoy’s boggart turn into?

Was he still scared of werewolves? Trolls? Dementors? A certain hippogriff maybe?

He thought about the face Malfoy made when he was suddenly thrown off of his cool, stricken with fear and he had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. 

\--

On the last day of October, Neville trotted down the hill down towards Hogsmeade for the first time, alongside Seamus and Dean. Tuning out of their argument over football teams, he spotted Draco, closely followed by Crabbe and Goyle, as well as several other Slytherins he’d never wasted the time to get to know; all walking just a few yards ahead of him.

The leaves on the trees had turned to warm, muddy colors and with Autumn came the chilly winds, forcing the students to wear their scarves and beanies. It was funny seeing everyone in their muggle clothes, Malfoy especially. He wore a forest green sweater underneath a dark coat, wrapped in a Slytherin scarf, and yet, he still seemed to chatter from the cold, his pale cheeks tinted pink. Neville’s gaze drifted to his arm, still stuck in a cast, clutched closely to his chest. 

The dark haired girl on his left kept running her hand along the nape of his neck, leaning towards him. Neville wondered if that couldn’t be the cause of Draco’s blushing and tried to look anywhere else. Leaves trickled down from above, the melancholy hoot of an owl echoed through the woods, the sunset shed its dying rays through the treetops. Draco’s hair looked far better in this light than it did in the dark dungeons of the potions classroom.

Neville cursed himself as he realized he’d gone back to staring. 

“Which one first then, Nev?” He was sucked back into Seamus and Dean’s conversation as the shorter of the two asked him, “Honeydukes or Zonko’s?”

“Oh uh... Honeydukes, I s’pose?”

Neville didn’t see Draco for the rest of the Hogsmeade trip and he wondered if he really had been able to distract himself successfully. He found this highly unlikely, as when the three Gryffindors had finally stopped shopping around to sit in one of the corner booths at the Three Broomsticks, huddling over the stash of candy from their raid on Honeydukes, swapping Chocolate Frog cards, he kept raising his head to check if the next person to come through the door would be a blonde, scrawny, pale, Slytherin.

\--

On a particularly cold night in November, the Fat-Lady in the portrait had been scratched out from her canvas, the whole school was forced to sleep in the Great Hall. Neville carried down his blanket and pillow, following Seamus and Dean who whispered fervently about the return of Sirius Black. Neville had heard about him in the papers. A death eater possibly. A cousin of Bellatrix Lestrange. The name shivered down his spine. He knew all about her. What she did to his parents. And now her cousin was roaming the grounds of Hogwarts, clawing at the doors. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified. 

As he laid on the cold stone floor where the Gryffindor House table would normally sit, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground, he watched the moon shine through stained windows. The light glittered across the hall and particularly on the hair of a boy sleeping soundly with all the Slytherins. It was almost like a halo had formed perfectly around his head, bathing him in a pool of glowing starlight. 

Dozing off to sleep, he wondered if that was how he got his name. Draco. It was the constellation of a dragon, if he could remember correctly. 

Draco was also related to the woman who ruined his life, his parent’s lives. 

Neville turned on his side, squeezing his eyes shut, and fell asleep trying to remember the names of any other constellations.

\--

Draco’s arm didn’t come out of the cast until nearly a week before Christmas break and having to miss an entire Quidditch game put him in an even worse mood. The gash was healing, sure, but not fast enough. Madame Pomfrey had said that it could take until June until it was properly healed. There was no way he was going to throw away an entire year of Quidditch just because Hagrid couldn’t take better care of his hippogriff. How was he supposed to know the dangerous consequences of calling it ‘ugly’? Who knew it could understand English? Their sorry excuse of a teacher certainly didn’t mention anything.

So instead of throwing out Longbottom’s ridiculous jar of slime, he actually tried using it. After the first couple of days he noticed the numbing pain had gone. Maybe it was a placebo or perhaps it was just a coincidence that he was using the gel as soon as he was getting better, but either way, his arm felt better with each day he applied the weird, pink and green, earthy-smelling slime.

It was snowing the day the layers of bandages were taken off. Madame Pomfrey said it was incredible that the cut had scarred so quickly, but didn’t mention the salve. What good would that do? It’s not like it could actually be proven to have worked. It was a placebo, a coincidence. His health should’ve been checked just to make sure Longbottom didn’t accidentally muck up the gel with some life-altering side effects. He could have been drugged for all he knew.

But he could at least say something to the freak. Besides he didn’t want to have to hold onto the jar anymore. Crabbe and Goyle had already asked too many questions when they saw him lathering the slime on in their dorm room. 

So on the next Hogsmeade visit, Draco hid the jar in the inside pocket of his coat and kept an eye on the scruffy Gryffindor, walking down the hill towards the village. 

The snow crunched underneath his boots as it fell in tiny wisps from above. He couldn’t stand the cold. No matter how many layers his mother packed in his suitcases for him, it was never enough and he hated having to pile on itchy sweaters and gloves and floppy hats just to feel the least bit comfortable. It was torture. 

“Draco, are you alright? You’re shaking!”

Pansy was at her usual spot, glued to his side. “Here take my scarf,” She said before draping a dark purple stretch of knitting around his neck.

“I’m fine.” Draco untangled himself from the scarf and shoved it back to her. She had become a real pain in his side this year. Of course he’d known about her crush on him since they’d met their first year, but she had gotten confident in her advances to him and it was painfully obvious what she was doing. The hippogriff attack only made matters worse as she’d taken it upon herself to become his personal healer, making sure the bandage wrappings were clean or bringing him sweets everyday with little notes attached or asking over breakfast, “ _Does it hurt terribly_?”

Sure she was pretty. Quite bright as well, in academics at least. And she always had a quick insult to throw at anyone who dared to cross her. But she was… Pansy. He didn't know how else to explain it.

Draco realized that with the snow and the monotony of coats and beanies and earmuffs, he’d lost sight of Longbottom. Probably, loping around with the two other dimwits from Gryffindor. Finnigan, if you could understand a word from that thick accent of his, proved only to be able to jinx himself or start a fire. Thomas was not actually too terrible a wizard, fairly smart and well put together. But he was from Gryffindor, and that was bad enough.

He figured he would pass him at some point in the narrow cobbled streets and decided to just follow alongside Theodore and Blaise as they went from Zonko’s to Honeydukes and The Three Broomsticks. Draco had been staring intently out of the frost covered window when he finally recognized Finnigan, Thomas, and Longbottom of course, just outside. Neville waved the other two off as Finnigan and Thomas entered the pub. 

Draco waited for Longbottom to follow his housemates inside, but as he watched them sit down at a table for two, he quickly got up from his seat. He mumbled to Pansy, who had of course trailed alongside him wherever he went, “I’ll be back.”

She must have said something, probably wanting to know where he was going and how long he’d be gone, but he was already out the door. The icy wind whipped across his face and he could see his breath in puffs in front of him. Draco strained his eyes to find Longbottom, who was far enough away that he could barely tell it was him except for the silly red cap he had covering his head and ears. He watched the hat disappear inside of a small green shop all the way at the other end of the street and hurried after him. 

Draco should have just chucked the jar out in the first place. This entire ordeal was becoming way too much trouble for just some lousy slime that probably didn’t work anyway. 

He thrust the grassy green door open and sighed as the room was quiet and slightly warm, humid. As his eyes adjusted from the blinding white from outside to the dark and misty shop, he could make out plants hanging from the ceilings and shelves along the walls, as well as books — a lot of them.

He’d never been inside this building, must’ve passed it right by on Halloween. And for good reason too — this place was low lit and dangerously quiet. And boring. He couldn’t imagine why Longbottom would choose to come here on his day off.

Which reminded Draco that he needed to find him. He spied an old witch in the very back of the room, spraying a rather large and hairy plant that sat on the counter. She hadn’t noticed him as he entered and moved as silently as possible, crossing over into a side room that opened up into a smaller, more cramped and cluttered area of books, stacked high on shelves, tables, in towers upon the floorboards, anywhere there was room to fit them. Between the tables and shelves and towers, he was able to find a narrow passageway through them all. The path swerved and branched off several times before he reached the very back wall of the room.

And there was the red capped Gryffindor, hunched over a large textbook, leaned against the table. 

He must not have heard him enter the shop or creep up behind and a sudden urge to grab his shoulders and scare him came rushing back all the way from his first year, back from their trip to the forest. But he wasn’t eleven anymore. Giving Longbottom a cheap scare was beneath him. 

He cleared his throat and that gave the poor Gryffindor just the same reaction as if he had indeed tried to scare him. Shoulders up to his ears, he spun around, hugging the book he’d been reading.

“M-Malfoy?” He squeaked, “What are you doing here?”

“Calm down,” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the jar, “Just returning something.”

Longbottom looked at the jar like he’d never seen it before. Frowning, he tried and failed to speak without stammering, “Y-you…? That’s the ointment I gave you?”

“Catch on quick, do we, Longbottom?” Draco held the jar out to him, dropping it in his gloved hands, the same maroonish red as his hat. He wondered vaguely if it had been knit by his mother but then came a sinking feeling in his stomach as he remembered. The Longbottoms had been sent to St. Mungo’s because of his aunt. He tried not to think about it often and so did his mother. He’d never even met the woman, she’d been in Azkaban all his life. His mother said good things about her sister but that she made a few bad choices before she made it to the prison. His mother said it was best to move on and represent what was best of the family. 

So Draco wondered if it was the boy’s grandmother who’d knitted the hat and gloves instead. 

Neville was still petrified, blinking to see if he was having some deranged nightmare, “So… you used it, then? Did it work?”

“You don’t see my arm in a cast, do you?” Draco shrugged his shoulder.

Neville’s face lit up, just like it had done that day in Lupin’s class with the boggarts. He’d been so pleased with himself, something that had been practically unseen the previous years. Of course, Draco hadn’t exactly helped either. But it was really his fault for being such a bloody pushover. Arguably, you could say he’d done him a favour -- forcing him to stand up for himself more. 

With a gesture of his eyebrows and a scoff from his nose, Draco turned on his heel to go. But he was stopped short as he felt a tug on his coat.

“Ah… wait!” 

Draco turned back around, “What.”

Longbottom must’ve forgotten how to speak, as he stared vacantly into Draco’s eyes. He winced, shaking his head, “Thanks… I mean, for trying it out. You didn’t have to… That was really nice of you.”

Nice? 

Draco gave him a look of disgust, “I know I didn’t have to. I only bothered trying it because I couldn’t afford missing another Quidditch match.”

“I know, I know,” Neville was grinning to himself, “But still… Thanks.”

Gods, he really was the most pathetic Gryffindor in Hogwarts history. If he had any backbone, he should have been making Draco thank him. 

“Whatever,” Draco yanked his arm back from where Neville had absently been holding it and walked swiftly to the exit, the bell over the shop door jingling as he left. 

\--

That was all Neville could think about over Christmas break. He spent hours sitting and staring at the jar, sometimes unscrewing the cap to marvel at the indentations made into the gel. It was strange to think that Malfoy of all people had been there, that it had actually worked. These were the times he thought he might not be such a squib after all. 

He kept the jar on his window sill beside a small, potted, withering plant. The poor thing kept him occupied as every day he researched in his stacks of Herbology books ways to cure its cracked grey leaves. After scanning page after page, it only took him a week to get it looking green and healthy again and he took pride in seeing it chirp and nuzzle his finger as he tended it. 

If only people were like that too. If only he could take the sourest of the lot and look in a book to figure out what was wrong. If there was an easy cure for people too. Just a little less water. Just a little more sunlight. If only people were as easy to please as plants.

Returning to school in January filled Neville with a weird light feeling in his heart, like someone was trying to throw it up in the air and he was waiting to catch it. He was anxious but excited -- which was new, even going to school his first year he wasn’t excited, he was only filled with dread for whatever new means of torture he was going to be put through, and for the most part, he was right to be afraid. In the past years he’d been given detention for things he didn’t do, thrown off of a broom, had sticks dropped on his head, he even got into a fight with none other than Draco Malfoy in his first year and thrown in the hospital wing after getting knocked out.

This time, he wasn’t sure, but he just wanted whatever it was he was anticipating to happen and get it over with. 

At the beginning of the new term, Neville sat along with the rest of the Gryffindors in the Quidditch stands and watched the Slytherins win against the Ravenclaw team, heart skipping a beat as he saw Draco dive for the snitch -- heart soaring when he swooped back gripping the tiny glimmer of gold in his hand, beaming to the crowd and pumping the air with his fist. Of course, all the Gryffindors around Neville were groaning and booing and he shrunk down, trying to hide the faint smile pasted on his face. 

If it wasn’t for him and his healing ointment, Draco wouldn’t have won. That made it harder not to smile. He knew it was only wishful thinking, he could still have been faking the injury in order to delay the game and watch Hagrid get fired. In fact that made a lot more sense now that he thought about it. Neville let out a breath of air, trapping heat in his gold and red scarf. 

Even if he wasn’t faking and he was truly injured, Neville shouldn’t be happy that he healed him. He really should have added some kind of itching powder or something -- maybe even some poisonous herb to keep him out of the game for the rest of the year. 

Thinking about what he should or shouldn’t have done occupied his mind for the dull and disappointing weeks that followed up until his spirits sank to an all time low. He had climbed up to the Gryffindor tower when he realized that the strip of parchment he had used to write down the passwords the new painting of Sir Cadogan was going to use was missing from his pocket. He had to wait, arguing with the knight. for nearly ten minutes before Harry and Ron arrived, letting him into the common room. 

If only he still had his remembrall.

\--

The weather was starting to warm up as spring rapidly approached February and by the next Quidditch match, the snow had all melted in the rays of the sun, leaving only large mud puddles to be avoided. Excitement was in the air as the rest of the Gryffindors waved their flags and cheered as Harry reached for the snitch. 

Seamus, who had been watching through his binoculars, elbowed Dean and Neville, shouting, “What the hell’s he doing?” 

Neville strained his eyes as he saw Harry point his wand at the Slytherin stands, an odd bright light illuminating the crowd. 

Dean scratched his head, “S’pose that’s one way to kill your competition.”

Seamus acted as a personal commentator, “Hang on! He’s caught the snitch! Looks like there was a dementor -- no, wait -- blimey!” He burst into laughter, unable to keep the binoculars steady.

“Hand it over, I wanna see!” Dean caught the binoculars up to his face, nearly choking Seamus in the process as the lanyard was still wrapped around his neck, “Oh my god! They’re like dwarves in a trenchcoat!”

Neville brought a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he finally saw what nearly everyone in the stands were pointing to. Draco and three of his stooges had climbed on each other’s shoulders to look like two dementors. Now they were all toppled over, still trying to separate from their robes as a furious looking Mcgonagall was shouting at them about detention and house points. 

He hoped he wasn’t laughing too hard. Neville knew everyone was laughing too -- who wouldn’t think Draco, the snobbish prat, getting his just deserts while also scrambling to untangle himself from Marcus Flint, would be funny? And Neville did. While the Gryffindors were still retelling it in the common room, Neville was the one -- no matter how many times it was retold, until the joke had been beaten thin -- Neville was the one to still laugh. He was in tears by the end of the night and had to stifle the giggles that threatened to erupt from inside of him as he went to sleep.

\--

Of course Sirius had to be the one to find Neville’s list of passwords. 

Of course, infamous serial killer Sirius fucking Black had to just somehow find his small scrap of paper that happened to have the Gryffindor tower passwords. 

Of all people, it had to be Neville. 

Mcgonagall gave him a detention, banned him from future Hogsmeade trips that year, and forbade anyone to give him the passwords from now on.

Two days later, he ran out of the great hall, a chorus of laughter following him out. It wasn’t even just the Slytherin table, it was everyone. Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs alike, all enjoyed Neville Longbottom at the butt of the joke, like dementors sucking the misery out of him.

He’d made it to the entrance hall, still carrying the howler, “-VILLE FRANKLIN HARFANG LONGBOTTOM, HOW DARE-!”

He passed by the upperclassmen still slowly making their way to breakfast, who caught on and jeered. Sprinting to the staircase, he ran up the steps, unsure of where he was going but knew he needed to be far from anyone else, “-SHAME ON OUR ENTIRE FAMILY IF YOUR PARENTS WEREN’T-!“

“Oi! Longbottom where d’you think you’re running off to?”

Oh no. Not them. Not right now.

Draco’s two lackeys must have followed him out of the hall as he heard Goyle shout, “We’d love to hear what your granny has to say about your misconduct! Letting a criminal like Sirius Black into Hogwarts? Tsk Tsk.”

Crabbe shouldered him in the side, “C’mon let’s get ‘em!”

Neville hadn’t stopped climbing the stairs for a second but as he looked down, he could see the two goons making gains up the staircase. He was already on the third floor by now, but he knew he was running out of steam. He was never a runner. Figuratively, yes, but in practice, absolutely not. 

“-DISGRACE, IF YOU EVER-!” As he neared the sixth floor, he wasn’t even sure what they would do to him. He glanced down over the railing to see Crabbe and Goyle struggling up the fourth flight of stairs. He supposed they weren’t runners either. 

“We’ll catch up, Longbottom! You may be farther up but we can still hear you!” Crabbe’s sneering voice echoed around the staircase.

“AND ANOTHER THING-!“ Neville shut the letter closed and the shouting coming from the envelope ceased to speak. He could feel the paper muffle in his hands, trying to get another word out. The staircase went silent besides the rhythmic tapping of shoes up the steps. Neville hurried up to the seventh floor and dashed into the corridor.

“Alright, very clever!” Goyle’s voice behind him, “But howlers only get louder the longer you shut them up! We’ll find you!”

Why did they think now was a good time to play hide and seek? Sometimes, Neville couldn’t believe the kind of childish tormenting he had to put up with. On the other hand, however, Neville always made himself the easy target, being so susceptible to making a childish bumbling fool of himself. Still, you’d think as the dumb duo grew up, they might’ve become a little less sadistic. But possibly the opposite was true. He’d heard in the halls what cruelty Crabbe had done about a week ago to a Ravenclaw boy who had rumors of having a crush on Harry Potter. He was only a first year. Neville quickened his pace.

I need a place to hide. I need a place to hide! I need a place to hide.

He’d reached a fork in the hallway and kept pacing back and forth, unsure of which direction the footsteps were coming from. It felt like the echoing and the footsteps and the torches flickering and the howler’s words were all crashing in on him like a tidal wave of anxiety. 

He was out of breath but he couldn’t stop himself from hyperventilating. The hallway spun around him and he found himself leaning against the wall, trying to ground himself. He really didn’t want to faint, but he could feel his muscles stiffening up and his blood turn cold. He knew he was sweating and shivering and he realized he really should have eaten more this morning before deciding to run up the whole castle. 

Neville turned to rest his head against the bricks, but instead found himself in front of a small, unassuming door. He shook his head. Had this door been here the whole time? 

“Where are you, Schlongbottom? Come out, come out!” 

Neville opened the door without another thought, collapsing into the dim room. He sat on the ground for a good five minutes, listening closely by the crack in the door for footsteps to come nearer and then fade away. He sighed heavily against the door, now finally taking the time to see where he was.

Whatever the room was, it certainly wasn’t a classroom. The room was enormous with a high ceiling and tall precarious piles of books and cauldron and various other items leaning against giant marble pillars that connected with the ceiling in wide flourishing arcs. It was like if a yard sale had spread across mountains and plains and then shoved into one enclosed area. Towers of haphazardly placed furniture threatened to tip over and Neville made sure not to sneeze. Walking around the pillars of junk he found old flower pots and broken mirrors, congealed potions and locked cabinets, swords reduced to shards, deflated quaffles, and what looked like a statue of a particularly ugly wizard with his nose chipped off and a mustache scribbled on in sharpie.

Passing a giant stuffed troll, he found a rusty record turntable and he gave a silent thanks to whoever was watching over him. He began rummaging around through dusty boxes full of ancient disks, but he was disappointed to find it was all classical junk from ages ago. He groaned, thinking of the identical records his gran kept in their collection. Or rather her collection -- he didn’t dare let her see the music he kept hidden in his closet. He only played those when she went out on errands or taking a vacation to London without him. 

The only person who shared his same taste was his grandad. For his birthdays he would let give him another album from his collection, making sure he hid it all away from his gran. It was fun to have a secret with him. After he died, the rest of his records must have gone into storage or maybe given away, Neville never found out. He didn’t like remembering his grandad often. It always brought back the memory of seeing him fight for air, turn blue, eyes bulging out of his head, and then... nothing. He didn’t like remembering him that way. He preferred the grandad that glowed with that happiness old people always seemed to have, laughing and clapping him on the back.

He remembered what it was he came here in the first place to do looking down at the crumpled howler, still squirming in his hand to continue berating him.

“Alright then, do your worst.”

He let go and the red pieces of paper shuffled out of his grip, “I CANNOT BELIEVE I WAS LEFT WITH A GRANDSON AS UNGRATEFUL AND CLUMSY AS YOU. YOU SHOULD BE THANKFUL YOU AREN’T EXPELLED. IF YOU SO MUCH AS BREATHE WRONG IN CLASS I'LL MAKE SURE THEY PUT YOU ON THE NEXT TRAIN BACK HOME. BEHAVE YOURSELF, FOR MERLIN’S SAKE, YOUNG MAN! YOU’RE ALL THAT’S LEFT TO REPRESENT YOUR PARENTS. WHAT WOULD THEY THINK OF HAVING YOU FOR A SON?!

Signed, Augusta Longbottom.”

The howler didn’t spit or blow a raspberry as he’d seen Ron’s had, but much like his gran, the howler grimaced at the very sight of him and shook itself in disgust. The paper tore itself up into neatly measured strips and fell to the ground. 

It wasn’t until he saw the drops falling onto the paper that he realized he’d been crying, and once he’d noticed, it had only become harder to stop himself. 

What would his parents think? What did his parents think? 

Neville looked around at the enormous piles of junk and rubbish through watery eyes and hoped they hadn’t expected more of him than this.

Later that week, he headed up to Mcgonagall’s office. Detention with her was never as terrible as it might sound. It was always the weird aura she emitted during the quiet hours in her office that just made you automatically feel guilty and it was very hard for Neville to keep his apologies to himself. In fact, he did say sorry at one point that evening and she just gave a curt reply, “Oh there’s no need to be sorry to me, I would rather say sorry to the fellow classmates who were put in danger due to your oversight.” 

That really made him sweat harder, his hands clammy as he scrubbed out bird cages. By the time the clock struck ten, he was allowed to go. Exhausted from the emotional weight of the silence bearing down on him, he gave a mumbled goodnight and all but ran out of her office. It was only as he was climbing the last set of stairs to the Gryffindor tower that he realized he didn’t have the password. And there was no one outside to let him in. It could be hours before anyone would even realize he was missing from his bed, and even then, they may already be asleep. And if Filch found him wandering around outside -- he didn’t even want to imagine. That man almost terrified him more than Snape, which was obviously saying something.

Another idea struck him and he almost wanted to laugh with glee as he remembered. The room he had found the other day on the seventh floor, he could just stay there the night. There were definitely enough couches to lay on and it would be quiet and safe from murderous caretakers. 

So he set off to climb the next few staircases and made it up to the seventh floor, treading as lightly as he could in case any prefects were snooping around. He had to light his wand, lowering it to the floor to watch his step. It was a little tough remembering the right way, even more difficult doing it in the dark. He kept a hand out brushing the stone walls he passed until finally he recognized the fork in the corridor. 

And there was the wall, without the door. 

But he was so sure that this was the wall. He remembered the tapestry hanging beside it was an odd portrait of trolls learning ballet. But no door. 

“Longbottom? What the hell are you doing here?” 

Neville let out a barely restrained scream.

Malfoy shushed him, lowering his wand, “Are you crazy? Do you want to get caught?”

“What are you-?”

Just then, Neville the bang of a lantern nearby, and the soft padding of cat feet, “Who’s there?”

Filch. He must have heard them. And it sounded like he was only another hallway away.

“Nox! Put your light out!” Neville whispered, pocketing his wand and feeling for the door that was just now starting to appear on the wall. Stones were shifting and adjusting themselves and Neville realized the door was a bit more magical than he had thought.

Draco rolled his eyes but ultimately waved his wand, drowning them in darkness. But another light was beginning to emerge from the end of the corridor as Filch was getting closer, “I can hear you! Wonder what the headmaster’ll do to a couple of students out of bed, especially when there’s a killer on the loose!”

Hogwarts really couldn’t have asked for a creepier caretaker. Neville groped around the wall, searching for the doorknob. After a few agonizing seconds, he was able to get the door open. For a moment, he debated whether or not he should bring Malfoy into the room with him. On the whole it was a terrible idea, but if he left him there, Draco would obviously tell Filch where he’d gone and get them both into trouble. Mentally sighing to himself, Neville reached out into the darkness, blindly gripped onto the hood of Draco’s robe, ignoring his protests, and shoving him through the door, slamming it shut behind them.

“Who the hell do you think you are -- don’t you ever put your filthy hands on-”

Neville cut him off, clapping a hand to his mouth to keep him quiet. They stood there, back to the door, Neville holding onto a furious Malfoy, chest heaving in the pitch black room. He listened silently for the sound of footsteps walking the other way and only let out the breath he was holding when he heard the caretaker grumbling off in the other direction.

Draco pushed him off, wiping his mouth, “If I taste dirt, I’ll kill you.”

Neville pretended not to hear him, straining his eyes in the dark and waving his wand again, which provided just enough light to see the room properly. He found a rusty lamp on top of an ornate pedestal and flicked it on, emitting an orange glow to the mountainous stacks of junk.

“Where the hell did you take me?” Draco spat.

Neville stuttered, “I’m- I’m actually not quite sure what room this is.”

Draco gave him a look which seemed to show mild interest, if not also a slight disdain for having to speak to him in the first place. Neville took that as a queue to keep talking, while he had him here anyway, “I found it a while ago, when I was hiding from… The door just sort of appeared out of nowhere and now if I go past the wall outside I can- I can go in.” 

Malfoy’s eyebrow raised the slightest bit upward, “You’re saying this door just appeared? When you wanted it to?”

Hiding his excitement that Draco hadn’t even said anything rude to him so far, Neville nodded. 

Draco lifted his gaze to the high ceiling, dropping it to the rugs and the couches and broken chairs. Very suddenly, Malfoy stood up to his full height, wiping a spot of dust off onto his trousers, “Well… I’m still not sure how you of all people found it, but if I’m not wrong, this must be the Room of Requirement.”

Neville tried to nod like he knew what that was and once Malfoy noticed this he heaved a sigh, and clarified himself, “The Room of Requirement. It’s in Hogwarts A History? Whatever, it’s a magical room that only shows itself when it’s needed. It can change to suit whatever the needs of the user may be.” Draco took another look, scrunching his nose, “I suppose you’re looking to become a hoarder like your grandmother?”

“I can still go rat you out to Filch, you know that?” 

Draco rolled his eyes, “Whatever. It was just a joke. You don’t have to take everything so seriously.”

It was so strange that Neville got to see who Draco really was when you got him away from the other Slytherins. Peeling him down to his core, he was just a snobbish brat, but not as terribly cruel as when he had an audience. Maybe he had just learned to be that way around other people? Maybe he just liked the attention?

There must have been a weird silence because Draco crooked a brow, “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I’m not- I’m not staring at you I was just…” Neville couldn’t find any good way to finish that sentence and tried to end this interaction as quickly as possible, “You know you can leave now? Filch is probably long gone.”

Draco sputtered, “I don’t need you telling me what I can or can’t do. What if I want to stay here? Why can’t you just leave?”

Was there any way to explain that whole mess without making Neville look like a total and utter loser? “I… uh, well I don’t have the password to-the ”

“Don’t mumble.”

“I don’t have… the password to the common room.”

“You don’t have-” Draco looked like he was going to have an aneurysm from the tidal wave of laughter just waiting to crash, “-the password? To your own-?”

“I know. Okay? I know-”

“You do realize I am the last person you should tell this to -- right?” His eyes were wide with malevolence.

“Yeah. I know already.”

\--

Draco couldn’t help but gawk. Was he making it this easy on purpose?

“You don’t have to say anything y’know,” Neville was shrugging his shoulders, “There’s no one here for you to impress.”

“I don’t just say things to impress people.” Even after saying it he knew that wasn’t true. “Why don’t you just… wait outside the door? Of your common room? Won’t someone notice you’re not in bed and just let you in?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but,” Neville was speaking to the floor, “People don’t tend to notice me.” He raised his head, “Unless they’re making fun of me.”

There was a pause before Draco dismissed him, “You don’t have to make such a big deal out of it. If you didn’t want the attention you would do something about it.”

Neville’s voice reached a volume he’d never heard before, “But I do! I’ve told people to stop -- I’ve told you to stop. I’ve said it before.” He looked like he was going to cry.

Draco knew that was true. The poor kid had even tried to fight him back on a few occasions. He asked stiffly, “Why don’t you have the password?”

Neville had moved to sit on the couch, facing away from him, trying to subtly wipe his eyes. He heard a muffled, “I’m not allowed.”

Draco waited for an explanation.

“After the whole… Sirius Black incident… Mcgonagall said I can’t know the passwords anymore and no one can give them to me and I just have to wait for someone to open the door.”

There was a light sniffle before he continued, “I had detention with her tonight but I forgot about the whole password situation and… yeah. So I just…”

“You were going to sleep in a completely random room you found in the castle?”

“Are you going to keep rubbing it in my face? Can you just leave?”

Neville was looking at him now, “Please?”

Draco wanted the final word. He wanted to say something cool and mysterious and clever and leave in a flourish that inspired awe. He wanted Neville to want to be him. He wanted Neville to want him to stay. He wasn’t sure about that last part -- why he wanted him to want him to stay. 

There was some sort of script they should have been following. One in which Draco got the upper hand. Where he got to laugh and sneer and Neville had to pretend not to be scared. There was more to be said. So Draco would win and call it a day. Go back to the dungeons because who cares about a musty old room anyway? 

They didn’t follow the script. Neville managed to tear it right out of his hands and now he just wanted him to leave. Well that’s what he’d do. No, not because he was doing what Neville wanted him to -- because he couldn’t care anymore. If there wasn’t a script and no more rules well Draco didn’t want to win that fight anyway.

All he could do was quietly slip out of the room and retreat. So did he lose this one? No, Draco never lost. Obviously. He didn’t think about Neville sleeping alone on the seventh floor. He didn’t think about whether or not he even had a blanket. Why should he worry about him? He didn’t. 

He woke up the next morning refreshed and well-rested in his four-post, went down to breakfast with the other Slytherins and didn’t pay Neville a second glance when he finally shuffled into the Great Hall, robes unbelievably wrinkled, sitting off to the side of the main Gryffindor group with a bedhead worse than an owl’s nest. He didn’t notice the bags under his eyes or that he only took a few spoonfuls of oatmeal before it was time to head for their first class. He didn’t watch him in potions or in the halls between their classes, trailing after Finnigan and Thomas like a lost dog. 

But as soon as his last class of the day, Divination, was over, after nearly falling asleep gazing into the “beyond” -- he headed toward the seventh floor. He’d managed to convince Crabbe and Goyle he was just going to ask Professor Trelawney a question and that he’d meet up with them later and so it was just up to him to remember the right way. It was the left corridor, he could remember that. And it was just past a few of the offices and then he remembered bumping into Neville and him pushing him through a door and -- yes, this was it.

There was a quaint door tucked away in the wall. A door you wouldn’t give a second glance if you were just passing by, but there was no doubt about it, this had to be it. Draco turned the knob and sure enough, the door budged open and he stepped through. 

It was deadly quiet besides the faint ticking of a hundred buried clocks and the beating of Draco’s heart. He knew he was alone, or maybe he was just hoping he was alone, but he weaved around the columns, gazing up at strings of red paper lamps tangled up in the ceiling, and rows and rows of books shelved inside velvety green and violet purple bookcases. As he traveled further and further into the room, he noticed it was getting lighter until he ended up in a clearing around a window that stretched all the way up to the top of the ceiling. You could see everything in the valley and the far off jagged mountains disappearing into the horizon. Forests and rivers and the great lake and the tiny greenhouses and the owlery and the traintracks weaving their way through hills and dales and everything just looked so incredibly small from up here. 

And sitting on the ledge beneath the window was Neville, hugging his knees and resting his head against the glass.

Draco knew he should leave. It was wrong of him to intrude. He tried to back away softly, carefully tip toeing, but he must have backed up in the wrong direction and his heel collided with a brass candlestick, knocking it over sending a clanging sound echoing through the room. Draco mentally cursed himself. 

“Malfoy?” Neville jumped up from the ledge, apparently frightened.

“Longbottom.”

“Well… what are you doing here?” 

Why was he here? Now he really didn’t have the right answer. Draco hoped his mask of confidence wasn’t slipping, “You’d think I’d let the squib have the most useful room in the castle all to himself?”

Neville glared back, all signs of nervousness fading away, but he didn’t say anything, waiting for Draco to do something. “So? Was the couch as comfortable as the dog cage you sleep in at your Granny’s house?”

Neville’s eyebrows twisted in confusion but he just chuckled, shaking his head. He settled back into the ledge where he sat, arms hugged around his legs and looking back out the window. 

Draco huffed, “That’s funny to you is it?” 

He just shrugged in response, “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” 

When did Neville get all assertive? Did Draco say something wrong?

“Why did you… why were you there last night, anyway? Out in the hall?” Neville said.

This was one story he wasn’t keen on telling. And of all people, he wasn’t about to tell Neville, “Nosy aren’t we?”

“Or don’t tell me,” Neville turned his attention back to the clouds reflecting the evening sun. They looked like someone had climbed up in the sky with a brush and painted them. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Draco didn’t know why he started to talk, but seeing Neville so flippantly unconcerned with him made him want him to care, “I was planning on stealing one of Flitwick’s dueling trophies and planting them on Potter.”

Neville’s eyes widened, brows raised, finally turning to look at him properly. His eyes were hazel. It was a strange thing to notice, hazel, but it seemed very important and the color kept blooming around his mind before Neville spoke, “Why would you do that? I mean how would you even make it look like Harry stole them?”

“Well obviously I didn’t get that far. I was on my way to Flitwick’s office when I ran into you.”

“What’d Harry even do? I haven’t seen him around you these past couple days.”

“He snuck into Hogsmeade!”

“Wh-what? How?”

“I… ! I don’t know but he was there! Or… I guess it was just his head but he was there and he threw mud on me!”

Neville burst out laughing, “Did he really?”

“Oh, yes it’s very funny, Longbottom,” Draco crossed his arms, “He was violating school rules and managed to make himself invisible in order to fling mud at me like a deranged monkey, yes I can see the humor in that.”

“Sorry but,” Neville shrugged, stifling a giggle, “Maybe if you weren’t such a…“

Draco’s eyes narrowed, “Go ahead, Longbottom. Say it.”

“Well,” He swallowed, “If you weren’t such a prat all the time, maybe people would like you a little more.”

He scoffed, “Rich advice coming from Schlongbottom.”

“See! You call people names and scoff and stuff and no one’s going to like you.”

Draco squinted, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I already am well liked. By the right kind of people. And I don’t really give a damn if some loser Gryffindors don’t.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

“What?” Draco sputtered. 

Neville raised his shoulders to his ears, “I mean, if you don’t care what I think, then why are you here? Talking to me of all people?”

“I already told you, I want to keep this room to myself-”

“Yeah, I heard that. But why aren’t you kicking me out? Hexing me or something.” Neville’s eyes turned cold, “I know you can. I’ve seen you do it.”

Sure there were times when Draco used his wand to shoot people flying into the wall or flat on their backs. But that was mostly just for fun, when Crabbe and Goyle were around. He liked it when crowds of Slytherins came and cheered for him. 

“But I know you won’t. Cause no one’s around to watch.” Neville was trying to get inside his head, and he certainly wasn’t about to let that happen.

Draco pulled out his wand, “Oh yeah? That’s what you think?” And then he said something he found he would later regret. Draco spilled out, “That sort of thinking must’ve been what got your mum and dad stuck in St. Mungo’s.”

Neville’s eyes widened and he blanched, swallowing hard and turning away. The air in the room was sucked out like a vacuum, like a giant black hole manifested in that room just for them. After a moment, he spoke in almost a whisper, “H-how do you know about that?”

Draco lowered his wand. It was his aunt who was in Azkaban for doing the exact thing to them. How could he not know? “Word gets around.”

“You’ve never… ?” Neville stuttered, “You’ve never said anything about it in front of other people. I thought… I didn’t know you knew?” 

“So?” He rolled his eyes.

“Well… It’s just… you’ve never made fun of me for it.”

“Well usually I don’t have to! You make enough of a fool of yourself on your own.”

“But…” Neville’s face softened, confused, “But you… you’re… why wouldn’t you?”

“Merlin alive, why are you so full of fucking questions?”

Neville jumped a little at the curse, “I just… I don’t get it is all.” 

“It wouldn’t be the first for you, Longbottom.” 

Neville shook his head, looking right into his eyes, “You’re weird.”

That definitely shocked Draco, “Excuse me?”

Neville looked like he was having some kind of revelation, “You’re… not normal.”

Never in his whole life had anyone ever called Draco Malfoy weird or abnormal. Why should they? By all accounts he was perfect. He was smart, acing every class. He wasn’t the best Quidditch player, but he was better than most. He could perform any spell, jinx, or counter-curse better than the person who taught him. And it didn’t hurt that he kept the same attractive features that all Malfoys seemed to have. A sharp nose, piercing gray eyes, and shining white-blonde hair. So no. Weird and abnormal were not in his vocabulary unless he was describing someone from Gryffindor, particularly Neville.

“Is this some poor attempt to offend me?”

“No, sorry. It’s just that… ” Neville trailed off.

“What?” Draco’s spat.

Neville’s eyes fluttered in embarrassment, “Well you’re just not who everyone thinks you are, are you?”

Draco rolled his eyes to the darkened ceiling, “And just what do you know about me?”

He paused for a moment, setting his feet on the ground, staring up at him, quirking his brow as if he was going to look right through him, right to his core. Draco crossed his arms in an attempt to block him.

“I know you actually care about the people around you. You’re not quite as mean as people think you are, you just want people to like you--” Draco scoffed but Neville continued, “-- And I know you won’t hex me, ‘cause if you wanted to do that you’d have done it already.” He added with a slight smirk and tilt of his head, “And I know that I could beat you in a real fight since Crabbe and Goyle aren’t here.”

“Is that so?” Draco sneered.

Neville stood up to his full height, shrugging. The two sized each other up. He was definitely taller than Draco and bigger too. But what Draco lacked in height, he gained in muscle. Playing Quidditch for three years had to count for something. “Even without a wand, it wouldn’t take much to take you down, Longbottom,” Draco gave a sly smile, shaking his head.

“Then prove it.” 

Draco laughed but he could tell Neville was serious, “Alright, then.” He placed his wand on the ledge where Neville was sitting, urging him to do the same. After he did, pulling his wand from his robe pocket, they stood apart from one another, the glow of the evening sun flowing through the window and casting halos around their heads. 

He remembered their big fight back in their first year, in the Quidditch stands. Weasley, Crabbe, and Goyle had been there too, and by the end of it Neville had been knocked out cold. Sure, Neville was older, but he couldn’t hurt a fly. 

“Go on.” Draco wanted to see how far this would go. He crossed his arms and took a step closer. Neville’s eyes flicked down to the ground and his breath quickened. Watching closely, Draco could see his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. Draco stepped closer again, intruding on Neville’s personal space until he’d end up having to take a step back. But instead, Neville pushed him back.

Draco stumbled a bit, before a grin split his face. He went and pushed Neville even harder and everything went downhill from there. There was grabbing and twisting and pulling, somehow they ended up on the floor. Draco had been in fights like this before, when he was younger and threw more tantrums. He’d wrestled Theodore plenty of times for fun and sometimes just because he got on his nerves. This time was in the same tune but still somehow different. He was laughing, as he often did in a play fight. It was just a reaction he always got from fighting, instinctual perhaps. But it must have pissed Neville off because at some point Neville had him in a headlock, holding his head in the crook of his arm. And because Draco could feel his lungs fight for air as he scrambled to get Neville off of him, Draco swung his elbow up to get out of his grip. Instead he ended up thrusting his elbow right into Neville’s face, knocking him back.

Neville had let go immediately. When Draco realized what had happened, seeing Neville reel back, cupping his nose as a rush of blood fell through his fingertips, he sat up, edging closer, holding onto the Gryffindor’s shoulders. Neville was shaking almost surprised by the amount of red flowing from his face and Draco couldn’t help but reach his sleeve up to try to stop the bleeding. He heard himself say, with the gentleness of a prefect calming down a homesick first year, “Hey, hey you’re okay, you’re alright-”

But he was cut off by Neville’s fist, slamming into the side of his nose almost twice as hard, in nearly the same spot he’d been hit. His head whipped around and he was knocked back to the floor, recoiling in shock. Draco had never been hit so hard in his life. And he’d never expected it to come from Neville of all people. He felt the blood drip down from his nose and could taste it on his tongue and the dull pain came in waves but - and he knew this was strange - it really didn’t feel all that bad. In fact it only made him want to laugh a little more, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the uncomfortable daze he’d been knocked into or because it was Neville. He glanced up at Neville, who had finally calmed down a bit, leaning his head back, trying to mop up the blood with the sleeve of his robe. Draco sat himself up against the wall, just a few feet away, looking down at the tiny trickle of blood that had fallen into his hand cupped below his chin. For a while there was only silence and the weight of heavy breaths on the air, watching the dust motes dance through the last rays of sunlight streaming through. 

Draco braced himself and dared a sidelong glance at Neville. His eyes were shut now, tilted head back and holding his nose. Knowing that he couldn’t see him, Draco felt safer, inspecting his face. He had known him for three years and he’d never noticed the small sprinkling of freckles that covered his face. 

He wondered what else he hadn’t noticed.

Neville’s eyes flickered open and Draco had to pretend like he wasn’t just staring at him, “Is your nose alright? D’you think it’s broken?”

“No, it’s fine.” Neville sounded fine but he wasn’t looking at him.

“M’sorry,” Draco mumbled.

Hazel eyes widened, confused, staring back at him and Neville’s lips parted like Draco had told him he was Dumbledore’s uncle. After a moment, he blinked and shook himself out of it, “It’s alright.”

He added, a few seconds later, “Sorry I hit you back a little harder.”

“A little?” Draco grumbled, massaging the bridge of his nose. He could hear Neville give an airy chuckle at that and he felt himself smile a little as well. They shared a quick glance, grinning and turning away sheepishly. Even when he looked away, back into the shadowy edges of the room, he could see Neville’s smile reflecting in his head. The boyish curl of his lip and crooked buck teeth peeking out sending an odd flutter to his heart. He could feel his face turning pink. 

The golden sun had nearly escaped the room when Neville finally spoke up again, “Maybe… maybe it would be a good idea to keep this-” He gestured around the room with a lazy twirling finger and then to his red nose, “-whole thing between us?”

Draco nodded, mostly to himself, “Yes that’s… probably for the best.” He pushed himself up from the wall and stood in front of Neville, stretching a bloody hand to him through the last rays of sunlight, “Shake on it?”

Neville took his hand, red stained and clammy. He could feel the tiny heart pumping wildly in his palm and squeezed a little. Draco pulled Neville up until he was standing up with him and then let go a little awkwardly, wiping his hands on the knees of his pants, “This can’t be very sanitary.”

“I think we’re fine as long as we don’t touch an open wound.”

Fingers brushed strands of misplaced hair back and readjusted ties and collars before they made their way out of the door. “I’ll… see you around?” Draco said, silently realizing how odd it was to be here with him right now and that the idea of ever meeting him again in secret was just preposterous. 

But Neville nodded. As if it was the only normal thing that ever happened to him, “I’ll see you.”

__

Neville gave a wave and headed off down the stairs. It wasn’t until his made it to the first floor that he realized he should really clean the blood off. It wasn’t that much really but it looked bad and people would ask questions. He washed them off in one of the empty boy’s bathrooms, noticing the slight flush of his face in the mirror. He splashed water on his face a few times, hoping it would go away.

No one really noticed he’d been missing from the Gryffindor table. Dean did ask him what had kept him and he just answered truthfully. He had to go to the bathroom. Seamus went off on a rant about their History of Magic homework and Neville found himself zoning out. 

Staring into space led to staring at the Slytherin table led to staring at Draco and he almost didn’t realize that Draco was looking back. But instead of sneering or giving a disgusted look, he just gave the faintest smile, dropping his eyes to the table and then diving back into whatever conversation he was having with Pansy. It was the smallest moment, easily missed, easily forgettable. But he kept seeing that same smile wherever he looked, especially when he closed his eyes or stared into the fireplace before heading off to bed. And that smile came to him in his dreams. He dreamed of Dean and Seamus rowing a boat down a river and Neville kept falling off and trying to climb aboard. He dreamed of Dumbledore and two monkeys that kept climbing on his back to play card games. And he dreamed of Draco lying in a field of flowers while it rained except the flowers had little skulls inside of them that sang weird little songs and Draco just kept smiling at them. 

Waking up the next morning, he reminded himself not to eat so much pudding before bed.

The following weeks, he kept sneaking off to the Room of Requirement after classes were done for the day and sometimes Draco was there and sometimes he wasn’t. Neville knew most days now he had to be practicing for the next Quidditch match which was only a month away. When he did find him in the room, he would be lying on the lounge chair, legs propped over the armrest, reading a book. Neville tried to keep quiet, keeping a safe distance away, scribbling a Transfiguration assignment. He tried to keep track of the books Draco was reading: Gulliver’s Travels, Treasure Island, Great Expectations, Robinson Crusoe -- it seemed every week it was a new book, most likely one he’d picked out from the piles around the room. 

And all the while, during classes, Draco was as snobbish and nasty as ever. Buckbeak’s trial had gone less than favorably and Care of Magical Creatures always ended with a sad melancholic sigh from Hagrid. Neville had heard from Ron that Hermione had actually slapped Draco right in the face after he’d been mocking the groundskeeper. He couldn’t get that mental image out of his head as he watched Draco from the corner of his eye, flicking through the yellowing pages of another great adventure book, his face holding a noticeably red hand print on his porcelain cheek. Draco hadn’t tried to fight back, at least from what he heard. He just turned and marched back to the dungeons, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him. 

Neville wanted to ask him why. Why he had to be such a prick in the first place but also why he didn’t do anything. Was he really the coward everyone took him for? But Neville just kept glancing over at him lying on the couch, thinking of the words to say and never saying anything. 

\--

One day however, just a few days before Easter Holidays, as Neville passed by the door to the room, he could hear the muffled sigh of a piano. Perhaps the turntable had been flipped on? He entered the room softly and saw no record spinning. The first rain of Spring drizzled outside, tapping the window and smearing teardrops across the glass. Following the tinkling keys echoing through the room, he wound around winding stacks of chairs and books and mirrors and found the source of the music. 

It was a smaller piano than the one he had at home, one he’d never dare to play on. There were intricate designs along the sides of golden flowers and pale blue birds sitting in pitch black branches. But what was most attention grabbing about the piano was who was sitting there playing it. 

Draco hadn’t even noticed him, just kept on playing, his hands flying away from him at the keys as if they weren’t attached to him at all. The slow and heavy rhythm in which he played had no ounce of Draco in it. It was detached. Other. And yet there he was. 

Neville rested his arm on a particularly tall stack of books and just listened, entranced by the whispering chords and just hoping this song would never end. He couldn't remember what the name of it was but it sounded familiar. Like something his gran would play when he was little to get him to go to sleep. It felt so sad but with just the tiniest lilt of happiness or hope or something he didn’t know the name of. He was never good at understanding music. 

It was weird to think those same delicate hands that gracefully danced across the keys were the same ones that had tried to wrestle him to the floor, that shook his hand covered in blood, that had caught the snitch, that had terrified him back in his first year when he placed them on his shoulder when they were serving detention in the Forbidden Forest. 

Maybe he had sighed or shifted or leaned over too far, but the stack of books fell over with a resounding crash and with them, the piano stopped sharply, keys smashed down in fright. Draco snapped his head around to see him, a look of horror on his face while Neville just stood there sheepishly.

“How long were you spying on me?” Draco’s voice was shrill compared to the quiet music he’d been playing just moments before.

Neville was a little high from the adrenaline coursing through him and it felt like he could say anything now, “That song was really lovely. You… you’re really good at playing.”

It was obvious that Draco was still perturbed from being spied upon and interrupted. But his frown gave way to a stubborn eye roll, “It’s a beginner’s song. Anyone can play it.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s not very surprising.”

Neville chose to ignore that, “When’d you learn to play?”

Draco turned his head to the side, focusing on the books now lying across the floor, “I started when I was little, maybe six or so? My parents wanted me to learn so I had a tutor.”

“How lucky!” Neville said, “I always wanted to learn, but I wasn’t allowed.”

Draco lifted his eyebrows at that, stifling a laugh, but he said, “I really hated it as a kid. It was boring and my hands always hurt by the end. I still don’t really enjoy it.”

“But you play so nicely! You really seemed…” Neville didn’t know how to describe it again, “... peaceful.” 

Another eye roll from Draco, “That’s just Erik Satie, that’s not me.”

“Satie?”

A sigh, “The artist. Erik Satie. Gymnopédie No. 1.”

“Oh.” Now he recognized the last name. Definitely one of his Gran’s records. 

“Well uh… what is you?”

“Excuse me?” Draco had an incredulous look plastered on his face, a laugh threatening to escape.

Neville was never great with words, but this was definitely one of the least dignifying of them all. What is you? What was he even trying to say? “I mean what kind of music do you like? Besides uh… Satie.”

Draco lowered the key lid down, avoiding Neville’s gaze, “I don’t know. I listen to whatever people give me. Pansy keeps sending me records for my birthday.”

Somehow Neville found that endearing, “Oh? Like what?”

“Muggle rubbish,” Draco waved his hand, trying to recall the names, “One’s by… I think The Cure is what they’re called? And the other one… I don’t know it has a baby underwater on the cover.”

“The Cure one, what’s it look like?”

“Well it’s red and has like a blue circle and a bunch of eyes around the side-”

“Oh! I have the same one,” He’d gotten it when he visited Dean over the Summer. The Thomas family lived in the city and they had taken a trip to a little shop down the street. He remembered seeing the other album, the one with the baby underwater, all over the place but really he couldn’t remember what it was called either. “What’s your favorite?”

“Huh?”

“Which track is your favorite?” Neville knew he was asking too many questions. But when he got like this, he couldn’t stop. The thought of Draco experiencing the same things he’d experienced, listened to the same songs, probably lying around in his room at home, wherever that was. Imagining what that room looked like and what he thought about while listening, whether he sang along or danced -- it was all a little too much. He wanted to know everything.

Draco tilted his head, squinting at the bluebird on the piano, “It’s… ‘Let’s Get Happy’... or ‘Perfect Day’? I don’t know the name but there’s one line that’s like-” And here he took a second to think before he did a sort of half talking half singing voice, “-‘Tear out the pages in all the bad news’.”

“Doing the Unstuck?”

“Sure, that sounds right.”

Yeah. He could picture Draco dancing to that one.

“And you? What do you listen to?”

Neville hadn’t expected the question to be turned on him, “Uh… The Cranberries, Talking Heads, XTC, Arthur Russel, Stone Roses…” 

He kept rattling off names because Draco was nodding his head like he understood a word of what Neville was saying. It was very obvious he was completely lost, but it was worth a try. 

“I could… Well I could always bring them and we could- we could listen to them? Or you could just listen to them whenever or whatever.”

Draco’s eyes were wide but he said, “Oh… yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah? I’ll just bring em back from my house after Easter and then… yeah.” Neville hoped he didn’t sound stupid or weird or desperate but he was just excited. This gave him something to look forward to. He wanted Draco to hear everything.

“Well… ” Draco stood up from the bench, “I should… start packing. If I don’t start now I’ll forget to do it after dinner and then tomorrow morning I’ll be scrambling to get everything packed and-”

“Yeah. Of course. I should… I need to pack too, anyway.” 

Neville saw him the next day, talking to Nott and Zabini as they all waited for the train. He was standing with Dean and Seamus but as he was looking over for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to wave at him. Or at least smile in his direction. Something to prove that the time that they’ve spent together hadn’t totally been imagined inside his head. By the time Draco noticed he was staring, Neville was scared out of his wits and abandoned the gesture completely, turning to fully face Seamus as he rattled on about the “completely mental egg hunts he and his cousins planned.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bad at keeping POVs seperated! oops! oh well! also please understand that I am so embarrassed of my writing that I really can't bear proof reading so sorry about that. also i realize how ooc this must be and ive decided i dont care

Holidays were relatively fun at the Malfoy Manor. Relatively. 

Holidays meant lots of baked goods and sweets and his parents would relax their grip on him a little. They always invited as many guests that would fit the place, which meant Draco could often go unnoticed off on his own. Early on in the evening he would play piano, “entertain” as his mother liked to say, and then he’d excuse himself to wander the grounds or lock himself up in his room. It wasn’t that he was unsociable. It was that he rarely knew any of the people who were invited (regardless of how often someone wanted to comment on “how much he had grown” or that they “could remember when he was still being wheeled around in a pram”) and didn’t care to watch them all drink wine and become much more friendly than they ought to be.

He supposed he just never enjoyed being around intoxicated people. It was just annoying. People became too loud and would laugh much too hard at jokes that were hardly funny. He had no idea how his parents tolerated them all.

Draco could hear the great roars of laughter from out in the garden and turned his back to the yellow glow of the light illuminating the lawn. The sky looked best on nights like this. He spent hours just walking out into the grassy hills and climbing up one of the old oak trees and staring up at the moon. He always did hate Astronomy. It never made any sense to make something so natural and mysterious like the stars and the planets and turn it all into facts and figures and charts and ruin everything beautiful about it. He did of course get perfect scores in that class, but that was beside the point.

For the remainder of his holiday, Draco had been practicing for the big Quidditch match against Gryffindor. As the days passed, his father kept reminding him that a win for the Slytherin team would be most favorable if they were expecting new brooms next year. Every morning, Draco woke up early to run across the fields of grass while mist hung low in the air, reveling in the sound of his heart beating fast in his ears, and resting up on one of the small surrounding hills. He’d lie in the grass, watching the sunrise pour itself through the valley like honey on toast. 

On the train ride back to school, Crabbe and Theo kept badgering on about the hippogriff’s execution, and Draco tried to show any amount of interest. He had almost completely forgot about the incident. The only reminder was a thin white scar that crossed his forearm. It had healed a lot nicer than he thought it would. Drifting off to sleep at night, he often found himself tracing the line, feeling the razor thin edge of skin under his fingertips. And as he dreamt, he often saw glimpses of buck teeth and the curl of a smile, freckles and hazel eyes -- but he never saw the point in looking too deeply into the meaning of dreams anyway, and he’d be ready to say that to Trelawney herself thank you very much.

Classes were slow and every professor just went on and on about what was required studying for exams. When Snape had finally finished his last monotonous monologue, the class shuffled out, mentally exhausted from taking notes - as he said he would take off points for those who decided to ask him questions on the week of exams. Because Draco always sat right up front, he was one of the last out of the room, and by the time he was in the corridor he could see the rest of the Slytherin group up ahead, waiting for him.

“Malfoy!” A loud whisper came from behind and he spun around to see Neville standing a little ways off in the other direction down the hall. There were crowds of students filing out of other classrooms, mostly upperclassmen, so there was a good possibility no one even noticed them, drowned out in the flood of people and noise. 

Draco felt his heart quicken its pace. It had become unusual to see him outside of the room of requirement, let alone actually speak to him. He remembered the promise he’d made before the holiday and didn’t even really know why he had agreed to it; he wasn’t really interested in hearing whatever music Neville wanted to force him to listen to - but then, he didn’t really know why he couldn’t just say no, or spit in his face or just plain ignore him. 

He looked back towards his friends. Pansy caught his eye, waving at him, confused he hadn’t already walked over. Draco turned back to Neville and mouthed, “After dinner,” before wading through the throng of students back to his group. 

Quidditch practice was brutal. Marcus Flint kept having them practice the same play over and over again and at one point Draco nearly collided into the side of the hoop, swerving right at the last second and into Bletchley, who threw a few choice words at him. In the locker room afterwards he found he had wrapped his gloves way too tight around his wrists and a faint red indentation had formed in its place. He hissed and rubbed the skin before something knocked him beside the head, nearly making him fall off the bench.

“Watch it, spazz!” Bletchley barked while Derrick and Bole snickered from where they were changing. Draco turned red and quickly took the rest of his gear off before darting to the Great Hall. He hadn’t even changed out of the rest of his Quidditch uniform, but no one seemed to notice. When the older boys on the team came in, sitting at the far end of the Slytherin table, he kept glancing over between bites of his dinner, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. 

The whole thing wasn’t even that big of a deal, it shouldn’t matter so much. He had bumped into another player and they hit him over the head later - it didn’t even really hurt and it was probably just for a laugh, not even really done with any true malice. But the shame and embarrassment, people laughing at him - it was the same feeling as when Hermione had slapped him. Sure, maybe he deserved it, but he couldn’t get it out of his head and he found he had lost his appetite.

He muttered some excuse to the group of Slytherins and made his way out the hall, trying to pretend he didn’t notice the upperclassmen on his team all staring at him as he passed. Maybe he had just imagined it? He tried to focus on literally anything else as he climbed the staircases up to the seventh floor and ended up paying closer attention to the paintings as he ascended. Normally, the only kind of attention he would pay them would be in the form of harassment with a couple other snot nosed Slytherins. But now they were whispering, leaning into the other’s frames, and looking over at Draco. It didn’t take a first-year to know that the walls gossiped faster than the hundreds of teens that inhabited the castle, and the minute anything happened within the stone bricks, you could be sure, some well dressed, oil painted quidnunc was out and about making sure the scuttlebutt was properly scuttbuttled. 

It wasn’t until now that he wished he knew what they knew, or at least what they knew of him, which parts had been extracted and examined and very suddenly he wished to sew their plastered little mouths shut. Did they know about the locker room? Did they know about Neville? The stairs became dizzyingly steep and he was glad to find he was already on the seventh floor. 

When he walked through the already materialized door, he heard the scratching noise of a record player and an annoying reverberating bass line. He spiraled through to the back near the window to see Neville hunched over on the couch with some papers in his lap, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, looking frantically between a book resting on his knee and a pile of notes. 

“What is this noise?” Draco spoke up over the loud music.

Neville might have had a heart attack with the way he jumped in his seat, before he sighed deeply and moved the papers off of him, “Arthur Russel.” He was rummaging around in his satchel now and Draco stepped closer to see he had brought several records with him, all stuffed haphazardly into his bag. He was contented to pull one out and reach a hand over to the record player, pressing a button that drowned the room in silence, “Don’t worry. The rest of my music doesn’t sound like that.”

“I would genuinely have to chuck all of your records out the window, if that were the case.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Arthur Russel is an acquired taste,” Neville was taking the record of the player and placing it neatly back inside a greenish-bluish, new wave looking cover and putting back in his bag. The other album he had taken out, he now slid out of its sleeve and placed it under the needle. There was a tense moment of silence and a few seconds of static until the plucking of a guitar was brought out from the fog and soon the eerie chime of a synth struck out until the heavy thunder of a drum moved the beat into a shouting, frantic chorus. 

“What is this?” Draco asked, raising a brow to Neville, who was now playing the air drum and nodding his head along to the beat. His mouth did that same stupid curl of a smile as he handed Draco the cover. The title across the top of the cover read, “TA LKI N GHE ADS” and on the bottom it read, “SP EAK IN GI N TO NGU ES.”

The art wasn’t even centered on the cardboard and the little pictures around the corners of the frame were unrecognizable, but there was a giant blue circle in the middle - which reminded him: didn’t the album he owned back at home have a giant blue circle on it too? What was it with muggles and giant blue circles? If Draco tried to ask Neville would he look completely stupid? 

The song had changed by now and, no Draco was not the weird one, this was definitely, definitely weird music, “What the hell is this song called?”

Neville looked up sheepishly from where he’d been bobbing his head, “Making Flippy Floppy?”

“No. No no nope. Change the record. This music sucks.”

“Wait!” Neville was half laughing but visibly anxious as he got up to mess with the needle, lifting it and placing it on a different section. The song that was now fading out was a wild cacophony of cowbells and shrill saxophones and he was relieved when the room returned to quiet as it ended. 

And then the song that Neville apparently wanted him to hear began - drums leading into the soft melody of tiny springy guitar plucking and waves of synth washing along like tides on the shore. Draco had never been to a real beach before, but he imagined that this is what it must have sounded like. A seashell’s song of what it heard from the bottom of the ocean, replaying inside its labyrinthine walls to lull itself back to sleep. Everything that had gone wrong today, everything he’d been worried about, just melted right off of him and he could feel his shoulders and jaw relax from their usual fixed, tight position and he breathed in deeply. Even if the lyrics were childish and fleeting, non sequiturs from line to line, they held some sort of secret truth within them, something intangible Draco wanted to hang onto, decipher, and know for certain - but it was all rubbish. Just nonsensical little phrases someone might yawn or mumble to themselves before bed.

“What’s this one?” Draco dared, with a noticeably more amicable nature.

Neville was grinning, “‘This Must Be the Place’. It’s my favorite. Probably one of my favorite songs in the whole world, actually. It’s not bad, right?”

Draco shook his head, watching the record spin around and around, light running along the thin ridges. From the corner of his eye he could see Neville mouthing along with the singer’s words. Every once in a while, a breath escaped his lips or the faint hum of a note and Draco tried to pretend not to notice. Not because he was embarrassed for him, but he wanted to hear more from him. Neville’s head tilted from side to side to the tempo during the instrumental break, his fingers trying to map out the chords of the synth by tapping his pant leg aimlessly. It was like he was trying to physically feel the music, to touch it and hold it in his hand; which as Draco knew firsthand, was an unattainable task. There were ephemeral little moments when playing the piano that he felt as though he had maybe brushed very lightly against the song, that for a short time it was there. But it was so fleeting and disappointing as it left that he stopped reaching out for it a long time ago.

Neville was humming along and mumbling the words again and Draco could just hear his whispering falsetto singing along, “Out of all those kinds of people, you got a face with a view.” And then, maybe out of fear or embarrassment he went back to just mouthing the words, face flushed as pink as the sunset outside the window. But apparently there was no shaking the tiny little head bobs he did in time with every music shift. 

And then the song faded out and they were back to the static of the needle before it picked itself up and placed it on its side, the record slowing to a stop. 

“So?” Neville breathed in a little shakily, “Did you like it?”

“That song was…” He wanted to find the words, anything to reassure Neville he had made the right choice, that he liked the way he sang, even if it was as quiet as a mouse and nowhere near the correct pitch. He liked it. He liked Neville. “It was... something.” 

“The rest of the album however,” Draco continued, “was utter garbage.”

“You only listened to two of the other songs!” Neville complained while he got out another record to play, putting it under the needle.

“Trust me, that was all I needed to hear.”

Neville rolled his eyes, in a manner that Draco often found himself doing and he almost laughed at the incredible impression, but didn’t point it out to him. He placed the needle down on the next record and moved back to his spot on the couch, the recorded sounds of windchimes tinkling in the breeze drowning out the sounds of papers shuffling as he went back to his work. And then the music exploded into a jarring swell of droning synth, flooding in as if from an entire orchestra. And even still, it sounded… nice.

Draco couldn’t catch Neville’s eye as he was staring furiously at his book, so he moved to look at the album cover, propped up against the legs of the record table. It was dark with only the shadows of flowers surrounding the lonesome face of a woman… or possibly a man? It was hard to tell. And printed in red ink: “THE CURE - DISINTEGRATION.”

It was the same band as one of the records he had at home and as the lyrics unravelled themselves as if from a sacred and ancient scroll, he could hear the similarity. Very quickly though, he found himself bored, crouching on the floor and holding the cover. He placed it back down against the leg and moved to where Neville sat on the timeworn couch, fruitlessly wiping away the layers of dust to no avail and accepting defeat as he sunk down into the suspiciously stained velvet.

Draco leaned over Neville’s shoulder in order to get a better view of what he was working on. Potions. Apparently comparing his notes to the textbook, which were miles apart in difference, “Having trouble?”

He could sense Neville shying away from him, possibly perturbed by his closeness, “Well… yeah. Just… none of this makes any sense to me?”

He sighed and continued, “It feels like there are completely different sets of instructions at certain points and I can never follow which ones are the right ones and in theory this all makes sense, like I can sort of understand which ingredients counteract each other and what each of them does and whatnot but…” He was rambling now, exasperated, “You know how I am in class. I can never do the stirring and the cutting and the measurements are never right and my hands shake and exams are coming up and Professor Snape certainly doesn’t help and - ”

Neville sucked in air, seemingly forgetting to breathe and something got caught inside Draco’s chest and all he wanted to do was reach out and place his hand on his shoulder - anything to calm his breathing. But Draco would never do anything like that. It would be weird. It was Neville’s own fault for letting himself get so worked up about it anyway. 

“I could…” Even as he was choosing his words, he was regretting saying anything, “I could teach you. Or at least give you the right steps for each of the potions. I mean if you want… ”

Neville’s eyes widened, “Would you?”

Draco rolled his eyes trying to look away and shrugged, “I’m the best in the class anyway. There’s literally no one better to ask.” _Except Hermione_ _maybe_ , a voice in the back of his head chimed in. The voice was right but there was no need to tell Neville something he probably knew anyway.

The goofiest grin split across Neville’s face and he looked like he might hug him (which, thank Merlin, he did not), “That’s - ! Thank you, Draco, really!”

The Slytherin could feel his face turn pink. Had he ever heard him say his first name before? Well if he had, he must have never noticed because the way he said it in his accent was… It was just new. Most people said it, hitting every consonant like poison they were trying to spit out of their mouth. _Dray-ko. Drake-o_.

But hearing Neville say his name... He pronounced it like it was a name of some species of rare bird or a particularly beautiful flower - hitting the consonants softly and changing the “ay” sound to more of an “eh” sound. _Dreh-co_. Oh gods. Why was he so stuck on the way he said his name?

“Are you alright, Draco?”

“Yes, of course. Hand me that quill, your spelling is atrocious.”

So on top of getting ready for the Quidditch match on Saturday, Draco worked with Neville on fixing his notes and reteaching the Potions lessons for him. Somewhere in the stacks of rubbish, Draco was able to find a fairly undamaged cauldron and even began helping him practice the precise measurements and wand movements. They slowly made their way through listening to all of Neville’s records that were played in the background and over time, Draco started to sort of appreciate his music. Most of it was still garbage, but tolerable garbage with tunes that could drown out the awkward silences that always arose during their study sessions - and for that, Draco was thankful. 

Very quietly, he wished that Quidditch practice was anything like studying with Neville. It was exhausting having to strain his eyes over and over again to catch the snitch for Flint’s drills. And then there were the dodging exercises where he’d have to swerve out of the way of incoming bludgers and he swore Derrick was purposefully aiming towards him than anyone else. And then if all of that wasn’t enough, Flint made them run laps around the field as a “cool down”. Sure, running was in his blood and probably one of his favorite parts of being on the team, but he still hated it when someone told him to run. It took all the fun out of it. 

__

Tensions were high at the Gryffindor table at breakfast on Saturday. Even taking one look at Harry’s face made the oatmeal in Neville’s bowl seemingly inedible. Hermione and Ron hopeless attempts to hype him up for the match and the bobbing of Oliver Wood’s leg further down the table kept giving Neville secondhand anxiety, waves of nerves pooling in his stomach. It didn’t help that he could see Draco experiencing the same thing, staring down at his plate of food while Pansy curled his hair around her finger.

He pushed down the probing want for him to be sitting there, trying to calm him down, and instead thought back to their study session from last night. A smile crept across his face, remembering the joking back and forth about whose team would win and his repeated insistence: _Gryffindor rules, Slytherin drools_. The way they had talked about it made it seem like just another silly game. But now with the suspense and apprehension physically weighing down the air they breathed, it felt more like a battle to the death. 

But the day wore on and Neville marched along with the rest of his house up to the stands, cheering on the team as they walked out onto the field. The school marching band struck up a cheerful and energetic tune with tubas and horns and trombones and most of the nerves from the morning had melted away in the bright sunshine and light breeze. Flags and ribbons of red and gold waved in all of the stands - all except the Slytherin stands, where emblems of green and silver snakes were rippling across the crowd. 

Neville almost didn’t even see the two teams enter onto the field, the sun glaring into his eye, but he heard everyone yell and cheer and he brought his hands up to shield his eyes. If he squinted, he could see the players, clad in black and brown knee and elbow pads, carrying their brooms. And if he squinted even harder, he could make out white blond hair, pale face screwed up from the sun beaming down in his eyes as well. 

“Alright, Oliver and Flint are shaking hands. Alright, now they’re all gettin’ up on their brooms. Okay and now they’re up in the air-”

“Seamus, you really don’t need to comment on everything that's happening. That’s what the commentator is for,” Dean nudged Seamus in the ribs, “You could also let me and Nev borrow the binoculars as well?”

“But that’s not nearly as fun, now, is it? Oh look! There goes the quaffle!”

Neville had never seen so many fouls called out in a game. After Angelina Johnson scored for the Gryffindor team with a resounding applause, Flint pretended to accidentally bump into her, nearly knocking her off her broom. Then of course, Fred threw his bat into the back of Flint’s head, which collided into his broom handle and he was left with a profusely bloody nose for the rest of the game. The game devolved into petty back and forth with Slytherin consistently trying to push the Gryffindor team off their brooms and the Gryffindor team pushing back with resulting penalties to both sides. But the Gryffindor team kept scoring and the Slytherins kept missing. It seemed like every few minutes Madame Hooch had to blow her whistle and shout to the point where Dean even leaned over to bet whether she would lose her voice at the end of the match. 

“Harry sees the snitch!” Seamus gasped, pointing out into the air where indeed a red and dark figure on a broom was reaching out to something faint and glittering. The score was 70 - 10 and if Harry caught it, they’d win the cup right then and there.

“Looks like Malfoy sees it too,” Dean’s eyes were fixed on the green figure chasing after Harry.

“WHAT A DIRTY LITTLE CHEAT!” Seamus howled, along with everyone else in the stands as Lee interpreted through the microphone. Draco had pulled on the tail of Harry’s Firebolt to stop him and it worked, the snitch dancing around in confusion before darting off in the other direction. All three houses in the stands were hurling insults at Draco and booing and Neville couldn’t blame them. He couldn’t believe Draco would even think to- well. That wasn’t necessarily true. He could believe Draco would do that. He just wished he wouldn’t. Some tiny little voice inside of him wished that in the short time they had gotten to know each other in secret that he had changed him, even the tiniest amount. That he really was a great person on the inside.

But that was wishful thinking. He cursed himself for even letting himself think that.

There were a few more penalties and goals and by the time the snitch was seen again, the score was 80 - 20 and Draco was hurtling towards the earth in pursuit of the tiny golden speck. Neville’s heart was in his throat and he forgot to be mad at Draco anymore, even among the Gryffindors beside him shouting at Harry to push him off his broom. His fists were white holding onto the railing and he didn’t know if he was worried about Draco catching the snitch or crashing into the ground. 

Harry was neck and neck with him now and it was a fifty-fifty shot of who would catch it. And in the last moment before impact, Harry reached out with both hands off the broom, caught the snitch and swerved up from the ground. The stands went wild as the marching band struck up another jubilant tune. But Neville’s eyes were still trained on Draco, who tried to swerve up as Harry had done but was just one second too late. In a flash of green and silver, he was knocked off his broom, tumbling across the field and landing flat on his back. But no one was watching - the cheers were deafening and the Gryffindor team had all landed safely to huddle around Harry, throwing him up into the air. Dean and Seamus were going insane, shoving on Neville’s shoulders and jumping in the air, waving their flags. And somewhere inside him, Neville was happy, relieved. The Gryffindor tower could finally breathe again.

But another part of him was watching Draco pick himself up from the grass glancing around him and rushing to the Slytherin locker rooms and Neville’s nerves still hadn’t let go of his throat.

__

Draco was tearing the protective padding off himself in a fury, throwing it all into the crocodile colored locker and changing into his school uniform with trembling hands, the sounds of the crowd still echoing through the walls, but muffled from inside the empty locker room. He was trying to knot his tie, having to restart several times due to the shakiness of his fingers, when his locker was slammed shut with a resounding metal clang. 

Derrick was standing right over him, at least a head taller and a hell of a lot stronger looking than Draco had realized, “What the _fuck_ was that?” His voice boomed against the lockers.

The rest of the Slytherin team was right behind him, crossing their arms and staring daggers straight through him. Draco looked to Flint, but he was holding his nose, blood dripping down and staining the silver lining of his sweater. 

“Hey, dipshit!” Derrick shoved him against the locker, banging Draco’s head against the metal, “I asked you a question!”

All of the right words had escaped Draco’s mind and he could only mumble out, “What?”

“Why didn’t you catch the fucking snitch when it was right fucking there?” Bletchley was right there with him and Draco had never realized how much younger he was than all of them. But as they were towering over him, he could feel his heart beating hard against his chest and he felt like a cornered animal. He just wanted to get out. “You cost us the cup!”

Even as terrified as he was, Draco still huffed under his breath, “Wasn’t my fault you kept letting Johnson score.”

Burning rage filled Bletchley’s eyes and he looked like he was about to hit him, but Flint finally stepped in, blood smeared across his face, “That’s enough.”

“Let’s just…“ It was clear that being a supporting leader was not his forte, “... put this behind us.” Draco felt a little bit bad for Flint. It was his last year and it was obvious he had really been banking on their team winning, the exhaustion and disappointment evident in his eyes. 

Bletchley glared but eventually stepped back from Draco and the rest of the team wandered off to change or shower, grumbling and rehashing the rather brutal points in the game. And just as Draco could feel a sigh of relief, it was sucked right out of him as Bletchley sucker punched him in the stomach. The keeper strolled off as if nothing had happened and Draco folded in half on himself, clutching his middle. 

Tears pricked his eyes and he didn’t even check to see if the rest of his stuff was put into his locker, grabbing his bag and tearing out of the room as fast as he could. He was running now, across the grounds to the castle, hoping no one could see him, still hearing the cheering dying down a little from the Quidditch field. Even in the hot sun, even with the sinking feeling in his gut and his sweat soaked hair streaking across his forehead, the running numbed his mind at least for the time it took him to make it inside one of the dark, arched entrances of the castle. 

He couldn’t go to the dungeons, the rest of the Slytherins would be filing in along after him in just a few minutes so instead he hiked up the staircase, two steps at a time, his footsteps echoing across the walls of the empty tower. He didn’t stop running until he’d made it to the seventh floor, flinging open the door to the room of requirement once it appeared.

__

Even after most of the celebration in the Gryffindor tower had died down and they were eating dinner in the Great Hall, Draco was nowhere in sight. Neville could see the group of Slytherins sitting miserably at their table, poking at their food. His eyes kept scanning, hoping he’d just somehow missed the shock of white hair, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

Neville only really had one guess as to where he might be, finishing his plate as quickly as he could and making his way up the staircase all the way to the seventh floor and into the room. And in the very back, curled up on the couch was Draco. 

Neville knelt down beside him. He was asleep, but there were tear stains glinting in the moonlight on his cheeks and Neville wanted nothing more than to reach out and wipe them away. In sleep, he looked like an angel in a renaissance painting. Like Cupid or Apollo, his silken hair falling across his eyes. He was also drooling across the pillow he had bunched up under his head and Neville sighed a quiet laugh. He was still just a kid. He was still just a mortal and not a god of light and laughter like the tiny voice inside his head made Draco out to be. He was still just like him.

Draco was only in his collared shirt and wrinkled tie and he shivered in his sleep. Despite the approach of Summer, the castle was still as cold as a tomb. Without even thinking, Neville shrugged off his robe and moved to cover Draco, who stirred only to wrap himself tighter in the thick woolen cloth. Part of him wanted to wake him up. He wanted to listen. He wanted to help. He wanted to hold his hand.

But another part of him understood what it must have felt like anyway, to lose. And a part of him knew he would always be much too afraid to hold his hand. It just wasn’t something you did. 

He’d asked his gran once if boys could marry other boys, just to ask, just because he was seven and he was curious about the world and full of questions. She never really answered, just sort of laughed and mumbled something he didn’t understand. But when she had walked out of the room his grandad had called him closer, looking at him sternly, a more serious expression than he had ever seen on him, it was terrifying. And he remembered him telling him, “Don’t ever let other people tell you who to be. You can be whoever you want to be, you got that?” Neville hadn’t really understood what he’d meant by that either, he just gave a little nod and went off to play outside, a little confused but easily distracted. But what he told him that day sometimes replayed in his mind from time to time, tossing around the words like lines from an old children’s book he couldn’t remember. 

Without even realizing what he was doing, he reached out a shaky hand and gently grazed his hand along the thin white wisps of Draco’s hair like he had seen Pansy do a million times. His heart was racing and he was almost sure it was so loud it would wake Draco up. Before he could think, he shot up from where he knelt and swiftly made his way back out the door, back to the Gryffindor common room and tried to remove the ghostly feeling itching in his hand. 

He distracted himself the next day by heading down to the greenhouses and helping Professor Sprout. She was used to this by now, having him hanging around in his spare time. After the mandrake incident last year he became more and more interested in the properties of magical plants and it had become habitual for him to stop by, especially on weekends. While other students tossed rocks along the lake or studied in the library, he liked going somewhere he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone - besides Sprout of course. She had always reminded him of what he imagined a grandmother should be: upbeat, strong, blunt, with a hearty laugh and a smile that outshone the sun. That may have been partly why he enjoyed her company so much.

She asked him about his classes and how he was getting along with the new year and how his toad Trevor was doing now that he’d been drafted into Flitwick’s choir. All fine, all well, was all he had to report. It was nice to have someone ask you simple small talk questions and for once, be able to answer them properly. 

Later on in the day, a few hours before dinner, Neville headed to the Room of Requirement, almost an instinctual habit by now. He’d gotten so used to being able to see Draco as long as he went to their special place. It was _their_ room now. It didn’t matter if it was secret, that almost made it more appealing to him. Like a game they were playing. Like children playing pirates or spies or knights. They were outlaws now. From what, there wasn’t an answer, but what mattered was that it was _them._ And Draco was on _his_ side. Never in a million years would that have made sense to him before, but then again a lot of things didn’t make sense in Neville’s life.

But Draco wasn’t in the Room when he got inside. Neville’s cloak was laid across the couch, rippling like the waves of the ocean upon the velvet. He didn’t know what he thought he wanted to find instead. Some part of him had imagined Draco handing him back his cloak sheepishly or perhaps at least folding it up neatly. But there it lay deserted and forgotten and it made Neville’s skin crawl. 

He gathered up the fabric and left in a rush.

The following Monday, things seemed to return back to normal. Neville’s eyes watched Draco from across the Great Hall, from across the classroom, and finally from across the couch. He never said anything about the cloak and Neville wouldn’t dare try to bring it up. But even still, every once in a while he’d lightly rub the cloth of the robe together, mesmerized that it had once kept Draco safe and warm. They studied together, or rather Draco re-taught the day’s lessons to Neville, helping him with his homework and essays. 

Neville was having a particularly difficult time with a star chart for Astronomy, “Is… is Cepheus over here or… ?”

“Above Cassiopeia.”

“... Right… which is… here?” Neville pointed with the tip of his quill towards a random dot on the map.

Draco, exasperated, placed his hand on Neville’s and moved the quill, “Cassiopeia. You can tell because it’s made up of a square.” 

Neville hadn’t removed his eyes from where Draco’s skin met his and he forgot to breathe.

“Here, you can remember it by thinking of how Cassiopeia sort of sounds like you’re saying “soap” - and then soap is cut into squares, and that’s how you’ll find it. Does that work?” Draco looked up at him, “Neville?”

Snapping back, Neville moved his hand, passing it off as getting more ink before writing all of what Draco had said down. Draco didn’t seem to notice.

There was an awkward silence while Neville wrote, which Draco tried to fill, “Exams are coming up soon. Are you nervous?” 

That made Neville give an airy laugh, “Of course I am. When am I ever not nervous?”

He could feel Draco’s eye roll without having to look up from his paper, “You’re not _always_ nervous.”

“Oh?”

“Not _all_ the time.”

“Well I’d like to know when exactly I’m not!” 

“Well you’re not when you’re around me at least,” Draco sounded more disappointed than proud at that fact, but it caught Neville off guard.

“Wh- Well how would you know?” 

Draco did one of his expressions that spoke for itself without really saying anything, just a raise of the eyebrows and a pointed look. He gave a shrug and resigned himself to his own piece of parchment. It infuriated Neville that Draco could just decide where a conversation ended. 

When Neville had finally finished the star chart, the light was starting to escape the room. He leaned over to see Draco doodling a scratchy looking dragon with his quill, but when he noticed him, Draco folded his paper to the side, hiding it from view, “Do you mind?”

Neville felt bold all of a sudden, “Draco can I ask you a question?”

Draco tilted his head in lieu of an agreement and went back to his drawing. 

“Do your friends ever ask why you’re gone all the time?” 

This made Draco lift his head again, “Pansy does. No one else really cares.”

That seemed impossible to Neville, “Well what do you say to her then?”

“To mind her own business. Why? Are you getting asked by the little Potter trio?”

 _Was that really how Slytherins referred to Harry?_ “No. No one asks. I told Professor Sprout I had a tutor and she asked who it was so I just said it was Hermione.”

“Except I am a much better tutor than that Granger girl, you have to admit.”

Neville glanced to the side, “Wellll-”

“No, shut up, don’t do that I’m at the top of every class you _know_ that.”

“Except you’re not? You’re second. Which is still good!” 

Neville couldn’t tell if Draco was actually mad or just keeping up the act, “Well why don’t you ask _her_ to be your teacher since she knows so much?”

“Well first of all, she’s way too busy with all of her classes to be able to help me,” Neville knew this to be true from the late hours she’d spend in the common room, toiling over books and scroll, waking up the next morning with ink smudges across her face, “And Second, I really do like having you tutor me… I guess I don’t say it much but you’re actually a really good teacher. I don’t think I ever would have expected it from you.”

“I’m going to ignore that backhanded compliment and just say you’re welcome.”

\--

For the next two months, Draco began to work overtime. Now that the Quidditch season was over, he could focus on his schoolwork, but since that barely took up any of his time as it is, he started to work harder at tutoring Neville. Everytime the Gryffindor had another O on a quiz to show him, it filled Draco up with pride. If only Granger knew that he was doing so well that he was basically earning twice the amount of grades as before. Everytime Neville passed a test, it was like he did too (which in reality he did, since they were taking the same classes but whatever). By the time June rolled around, they were both more than ready for their exams. 

It was Sunday, and they were both lazing around on the couches of the room while Draco rattled off Potions terminology for Neville to define while a record twirled on in the background, The Cranberries’ dulcet tones singing softly. At some point Draco let the paper he was holding fall to the ground as he laid back on the couch, using the armrest as a pillow.

“Neville you are going to kick these exams in the fucking ass.”

“Gods I hope so,” Neville laid on the couch opposite him, his legs propped up over back, hanging his head upside down off the edge of the seat, “Imagine if I came home to my Grandmother with perfect O’s. I don’t even think she’d believe it.”

Draco looked over at Neville’s face, now growing red from the blood rushing to his head, “Does your… grandmother really … ? I mean is she really like that?”

He nodded a little awkwardly from his position, “Imagine Professor McGonagall in her worst mood _all_ the time.”

“Oh come on… she’s _always_ like that?”

“I think she was a little nicer a long time ago. Before Grandad died.”

This was the first he’d heard of Neville having a grandfather, “Did you know him?”

He was silent a moment, “He was always the nicest person in my family. Or at least he just, he understood me, or tried to. He treated me differently. Not the way everyone else does. It’s hard to explain.”

“No, I understand.” He did. 

“He was the one that got me to like muggle music. My Gran really doesn’t like any of it. Not for any pureblood reasons, she just thinks it’s all very silly. I think… When I was younger… she was worried that if I listened to it too much, it would stomp out any magic I might have had in me. She thought it might make me a squib.”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh, “Sorry! I’m sorry. That’s not funny.”

Neville sat right side up on the couch, laughing a little too, “No no it really is pretty funny!”

“So…” Neville said after it had gone quiet again, “What do your parents think of your music?”

“Oh they don’t know what I listen to. I use enchantments on my room so no one can hear.”

“What?! But… but you’re not allowed to do magic outside of school?”

“I’m not using magic,” Draco gave him a look, “The manor‘s filled with my father’s collection of enchanted objects. I just took one of his old silencing salts and poured it around my room.”

Neville didn’t feel like asking what that was, he had never even heard of it before. But knowing that these were the Malfoys he was thinking of, it worried him that whatever it was - it was illegal. 

“Speaking of which, I’ll have to sneak another record in the house when I get back home. Pansy won’t stop hinting about the damn thing.” 

“Oh? Is it almost your birthday?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday!” Again. It was strange to think of Draco as being real. As having a birthday. That he’d had thirteen before this one. “Man, that’s terrible. Same day as our Herbology and History of Magic exam. Are you… are you planning on doing anything?”

Draco shrugged, “Pansy’s really the only one who remembers here. Mother usually sends a bunch of sweets and no doubt father has something planned at home once school’s over.”

Neville gave a thoughtful nod, “Hm.”

“Hm?”

“Well, I was just thinking,” Neville rubbed his neck, “Maybe… well what if we threw a party in here? Really went all out y’know? But only you and me were invited?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. 

“Unless that would be weird! Never mind we don’t have to do that at all-”

“What, now I don’t even get a party? Do you own a deck of exploding snap?”

“No? But Seamus does-”

“Borrow it and meet me here after the last exam.”

\--

The first couple days of exams went by dreadfully slow. Draco didn’t meet up with Neville after the first two days, which only made him more excited as Wednesday rolled around. He woke up that morning, not really feeling any different and just looking forward to the moment he could breeze through his History of Magic exam and make off to the seventh floor. 

By the time he did open the door to the Room of Requirement, it was like he had entered into a new world. The chinese lanterns adorning the ceiling were lit in a red haze of light. Green and blue streamers hung delicately along the arms of statues and twirled around busts. A messily drawn up banner scrawled “ _Happy Birthday, Draco_!” In Neville’s recognizable scratchy handwriting.

But as far as he could tell, Neville was nowhere to be found. In fact, it was almost sundown by the time Neville did actually burst through the doors, face red and out of breath.

“Sorry! Sorry, it took me a while to finish my exam and then I had to grab your present and Hermione stopped me as I was making my way over here and-!”

“You got me a present?” Draco eyed the package wrapped in brown paper.

Neville sat down on the couch opposite him after handing it over, taking off his robe and wiping his face with his sleeve, “Sorry it’s not much.”

The paper tore lightly under Draco’s finger, revealing a pallet of water colors and a thin brush. The quality was cheap and plastic, something he imagined muggles would use.

“I didn’t even buy it actually. Dean’s parents bought it for him when they found out he liked to draw, but Dean hates painting and he gave it to me a while ago and so… so I thought maybe… well you like to draw right? So I just figured… I don’t know.”

Neville’s face was flushed and sweaty, (from the walk up the stairs, he presumed) but to Draco he looked about as handsome as cupid. It was odd, he became suddenly aware of the space his heart took up in his chest. It beat like a drum, not fast or slow but steady and heavily and the weight of it nearly made him want to reach in and tear it out, only so he wouldn’t have to feel the rush of emotion washing over him. It was silly. It was just a second hand gift, something he probably would never even use, he never said he wanted paints or had any interest in it for that matter. But again, the thought that Neville wanted to give him something, that he actually tried, that he really tried to choose something that he thought he might like. He wondered if his heart would ever stop feeling this way.

“Thanks.”

“Of course!” Neville reached into his bag, “And I brought the exploding snap deck- oh! And I have just a regular deck of cards too, and I found a wizard’s chess set somewhere over by that bookshelf-”

They played chess and exploding snap and poker and Egyptian war and they listened to the new record Pansy had got him: a Smiths album. _The Queen is Dead,_ as it said in pink lettering. Draco won most of the games, but it didn’t matter. It seemed Neville was having fun just being there with him. 

“So d’you think you’ll cope with these last exams?” Draco asked, overtaking a knight with his pawn.

“Thanks to you I might.” He cursed himself for not seeing the knight earlier, “You must be excited for school to be over so you can be rid of me.”

Draco snickered, “I’m over the moon. Aren’t you?”

“Well I’m stuck at home with Gran for another Summer,” He said, taking out a bishop with his rook. “So yeah, happy days.”

He clicked his tongue, “Poor you.”

“And you?”

Draco overtook another pawn with his bishop, “Not to brag but father wrote in this morning saying he’s got box tickets to see the Quidditch World Cup. Oh - and check.”

“Checkmate actually,” Neville sighed, “You’ll bring me back something won’t you?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed Draco’s mind till now. Getting something for him. He couldn’t remember if he had ever gotten anyone a gift for any reason. But now the idea of trying to find something just for Neville excited him and filled him with a stupid sense of purpose. 

“Well I have to now don’t I?”

It was late, and they cleared the chessboard, placed the cards back in their respective boxes, and took down the banner and streamers, folding them up and hiding them underneath a lounge chair. As they said their goodnights, Draco had half a mind to ask him to write over the Summer - realizing that he wouldn’t speak to him again till next year. He hadn’t exactly realized this was their last night. But to ask him to write would be too much. It would be going too far. The tutoring and music and talking and the robe and the party and everything was already too much. Still, even after his exams were over and he saw him in the Great Hall over the great feast, talking and laughing, and then again as he made his way to the train, and even as he got off at King’s Cross when he watched him walk off with an old shrewd woman, he wished he _had_ asked him to write.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks briefly on child abuse, it isn’t graphic but just a warning - I don’t want to trigger anyone. Also underage drinking! Don't do alcohol kids.. fr just wait till ur 21
> 
> Also! I’m sure you’ve noticed already but yeah i’ve just been mixing canon from the books and movies willy nilly cuz i feel like it but yeah uh i just want to make it known that yes i am rereading the books to help fill the timelines and details but also…. Thematically some of the movie canon just works better for this fic xoxo

Summer couldn’t end soon enough for Neville. It was as boring as any other holiday, stuck inside their manor in the Cotswolds. Despite the trouble he had gotten in his last year at Hogwarts, unknowingly helping a supposed criminal into the castle; his grandmother didn’t seem as worried any longer. She was back to her cold demeanor, which felt like home to Neville. It was what he was used to. 

So on most sunny days, he was permitted to spend his time outside in the sunshine, working on the garden. It was small, only a few planters here and there and flower bushes that lined the fences, daffodils and daisies and poppies and roses. He was told when he was very young, that his mother was the one who had started the garden, adding in little strawberry plants and short stalks of green beans. Before her, the back of the cottage was nothing but weeds and tall grass. Dandelions grew wild and took over the land in bright yellow and cloudy white so that no matter where you stepped, your shoe would kick the head of some dainty ragamuffin and send seeds exploding into the air like millions of tiny umbrellas in a storm.

But Alice swept into the Longbottom house and had the garden looking presentable enough for even Mrs. Longbottom’s standards. Neville liked to think about his mum taking care of every plant, no matter how small - the amount of care she must have put into making sure they each felt loved and cared for. 

After she was put into St. Mungo’s with Neville’s father, it was his granddad who tried to keep the garden alive. It was a lot of work for a man at his age, but he did his best, only a few of the green bean stalks and a patch of daffodils withered away under his care. As a kid, he followed his granddad around in the garden, offering him tools or drinks when he needed them and watched him work.

And then after he passed away, the garden deteriorated even further. It took awhile for Neville to muster up the courage to go back into the garden after his death. It was when he was twelve, during his Easter break that he had decided to weed out the dandelions that had come creeping back. It was hard work and took several days of sitting down in the dirt, poking the ground with a trowel but in no time the garden looked just a little bit better. 

Now, two years later, the garden was still not quite what it used to be, but it was growing back, slowly but surely.

At the end of August, Neville had picked some of his favorite flowers and pressed them into one of his textbooks. The plan was to give them to Draco -- a sort of welcome back gift for the start of the year. Over the course of his Summer break, Neville replayed every scene of their time spent together in the Room of Requirement over and over again, obsessing over every word that was said. At first it was thrilling; he couldn’t wait to see him again and ask him a million questions he had brewing inside him. He knew by the time they saw each other again he’d be too scared to ask them anyway, but it was something to occupy his mind. 

But as the holiday went on, he found himself second guessing every part of their friendship. Had he imagined the whole thing? Perhaps Draco found him annoying and couldn’t have been happier to have a whole break without him? What if he pretended like the whole thing had never even happened and he went back to bullying him? Or worse, he just flat out ignored him? 

So when he found himself back on the Hogwarts express, his nerves were strung out worse than usual. He sat in the far corner next to the window, watching the heavy rain slosh against the glass as he picked at the calloused skin at the tips of his fingers. Getting to hear about the Quidditch World Cup from the rest of his friends while rain pattered on the train window helped calm him down if only a bit. Until he heard a familiar drawl as their compartment door opened to see a much taller Crabbe and Goyle and of course, the slightly shorter, Draco Malfoy. 

He was talking. Saying something snide to Ron whose face was as red as his hair now. But it felt like Neville’s ears had stopped working. He couldn’t hear any of it. He couldn’t breathe. It felt like he was watching this all happen from the bottom of a lake. Draco was making fun of Ron’s dress robes, holding them up and laughing, but Neville only saw the way Draco’s face lit up, the familiar crinkle in his nose and crease around his eye. He wanted Draco to notice him. He wanted him to say something. But he was focused on Harry now, looking down at him from his sharp, upturned nose. And then he was laughing, and as soon as he’d been there he was gone again.

Draco hadn’t looked at him at all. 

“ _Bloody Malfoy_ ,” Ron was muttering, “Don’t act surprised when that prick grows up to be a Death Eater like his father.”

Neville broke from the water in his ears, “Like his father?”

“Oh come on, we all know it don’t we?” Ron was looking over at Hermione and Harry, “I mean we can all agree that guy has something serious against muggles?”

“And muggle-borns,” Hermione added over the book she was reading. 

That was something Neville had forgotten, or something he made himself ignore. The Malfoys hated muggles. It was a fact as plain as the sky being blue. He was reminded of the time Draco actually called Hermione a _mudblood_ , and shivered. He’d forgotten about that too. 

“After the World Cup,” Harry said, “When the… riots broke out… when the Death Eaters showed up, he was just standing off by himself. Watching it all happen.”

“I’m telling you, his parents are fucking Death Eaters,” Ron said. No one was going to disagree. 

When Neville sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors in the Great Hall, he wasn’t hungry at all. Everyone sat drenched from the rain, having to wait for all the first years to be sorted into their houses. Neville felt he couldn’t focus on anything but trying to parse through what had been said on the train. He tried to read the lips in his memory but it was no use. All he could do now was glance over at the Slytherin table, hoping to catch Draco’s eye. 

Thunder crackled in the middle of Professor Dumbledore’s speech as the doors to the Great Hall slammed open and a man Neville had only seen in the Daily Prophet strode through. The lightning illuminated a face distorted in scars and wrinkles and gashes that gnarled his skin as if from the bark of a twisting tree. Mad Eye Moody. He knew the name even before the headmaster had introduced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Neville recognized the man’s face as a rather reputable auror in the eyes of his Gran. There was a small clipping of his portrait taped on the cabinet in their kitchen at home and the face had greeted him every time he’d stepped in to grab a plate. 

He was perhaps even more unnerving in person. 

Neville was biting on his thumb by the time the Triwizard Tournament was announced. The whole room erupted into gasps and laughter. It felt like the pit in Neville’s stomach was only growing wider and wider. _Death toll_ was a pair of words he would never get used to and he was thankful he was too young to enter. If his Gran had found out about a tournament to prove himself in, she would have definitely forced him into it. 

He was still soaked to the bone when he changed out of his robes and into his nightwear. The events of the day were catching up to him all at once and he felt exhausted. Now he just wanted to climb into the four-poster and sleep and never wake up.

He was able to distract himself the next morning with breakfast and his first herbology lesson of the year, dealing with bubotubers. And then in Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid and his Blast-Ended Skrewts, terrifying lobster looking things with way too many legs. He heard Draco and the other Slytherins joking and laughing but Neville just kept himself busy feeding his Skrewt a frog’s liver. And then in Divination as Professor Trelawney showed them how to find the planets positions in the sky the day they were born, he traced the marking where someone had carved a curse word into his table.

When he was finishing up his dinner, he tried spotting Draco at the Slytherin table, but he was nowhere to be seen. His heart did a little skip in his chest and he tried to hurry up to the seventh floor as quickly as possible.

He nearly burst into the room, flinging the hardwood doors open. 

And there he was sitting on the couch at the far end of the room, legs crossed, reading a book. As the slamming of the door echoed through the room, he raised his head. “Finally you decide to show up.” 

“Draco!” He was rushing to meet him.

“Miss me?” There was the smile. The deadly curl revealing pearly white teeth practically shining like little stars.

“Forgot all about you.”

Draco pulled a look of hurt over his face, “No wonder. You weren’t even in here yesterday when I came in to check… Guess you won’t even care to see what I got you from the World Cup…”

The image of Draco staring out at all the burning tents came to mind, watching the terror and chaos and doing nothing about it. Was this really the same person? 

Neville watched him set his book bag on the couch rummaging through it and pulling out something red, white, and green and chucking it over to him. Neville barely caught it and shook it out. It was a Quidditch jersey for the Bulgarian team.

“Oh, Draco thanks-”

“Look at the back!”

He turned it around and in large blocky letters it spelled out KRUM. Victor Krum, that is. He’d held Ron’s minifigure of the young man in his hands on the train ride to school. Really he didn’t know that much about him beyond that.

“Draco thanks, really. He’s my favorite on the team,” Neville hoped he was sounding convincing enough. He really did appreciate the gesture, but he couldn’t get the other thing out of his mind. Had Draco been holding the jersey while the riots were going on? Would he still be able to smell the fire?

“I really wanted to have your name printed on the back… but I don’t think either of us would have wanted my father to hear about me getting a shirt with LONGBOTTOM in giant letters.”

“Right, yeah,” Neville really couldn’t care less right now, “About your father… I uh. Could I ask you something?”

Draco was fiddling around in his bag, pulling out a deck of cards. Only, these were printed with the portraits of famous Quidditch players on them, riding on brooms and smiling out into space, “Sure?” He plopped himself onto the couch.

Neville’s heart was beating out of his chest. His heart was screaming fire. “Draco, is your father… I mean is he… ? Is he a… ?” _Death Eater. Death Eater. Death Eater._ They were the reason his parents never recognized him. They were the reason he was raised by a woman who would never see him as anything other than a disappointment. They were the reason Neville was _like this._

“Nev? You alright?” 

“Death Eater.” Neville said breathlessly.

Draco pulled his attention away from the cards, “Pardon?”

“Is your father… a Death Eater.”

Draco looked at him with an odd quirk in his brow. There were a few moments of silence between them in which Neville was sure he had ruined everything. He had said the wrong thing. Until a smirk cracked along the Slytherin’s face until he laughed, sounding like waves crashing against a rock. 

“Of course not!” Draco wiped a tear from his eye, “Sure, my parents are about as pureblood as you can get but my father would never… He’s just… He just wouldn’t. I know it. Trust me.” Draco was smiling as easily as if they had been talking about whether or not his father was a Libra or a Capricorn and not a radical pure-blood supremacist hellbent on the eradication of muggles and muggle-borns. 

_Trust me._ Neville wanted to. He really, really wanted to. 

“C’mon… don’t you think I’d know if my parents were in a freaky cult or something?”

“You don’t think they’re Death Eaters.” The name left ash in his mouth.

“No, Neville.” Draco said, plainly, “I don’t. Now will you sit down next to me so I can brag about all the limited editions I got?” He waved a card in his face.

Neville sat beside him and let him ramble about the rarity levels and rattle off names and trivia. He liked this version of Draco best. The one that existed only in this room. Who was just another kid like him. There was no room in his mind for the other Draco, the one that stood around and watched the world burn. 

\--

The next day in Potions, Draco sat in the front along with Theo and Blaise, but he kept turning his head to catch Neville’s eye. It was only really to check and see if he was getting the instructions done right. But as usual, Neville looked completely lost. His face was red and sweaty and the clattering of his knife kept interrupting the silence Snape so liked to keep. 

“Do you require tape, Mr. Longbottom, to keep that knife in place? Or would you rather-” Snape was towering over him. He grabbed the knife from where it had fallen and stabbed it into the desk, mere inches away from where Neville’s hand had been “- a more permanent handle on your tools?”

Neville had let out a tiny shriek just as a pukish yellow plume of smoke exploded from his cauldron. Draco winced as he watched the metal liquefy and drool down the sides, letting the potion escape in a puddle on his desk. Neville melted his cauldron. By accident of course, like every other time something happened to him in that class. And yet, Snape seemed to take it as a personal offence, giving him detention. 

“Did you hear he got Longbottom to pull out frog guts just for that!” Theo was laughing, snorting really, over dinner as he mimicked the horrified look Neville now had on his face from across the great hall, staring blankly at his plate.

“Honestly I don’t understand how he can still take classes here when he’s practically a squib,” Blaise said, cutting his steak into precise cubes. “I mean, genuinely what’s the point.”

“ _He’s not a squib_ ,” Draco mumbled under his breath, without even realizing he was saying anything.

“What’s that?” Pansy’s voice came from beside him.

Draco looked around at the Slytherin faces now trying to glean whatever clever comment they were sure he had in store. But he just shook his head, “Didn’t say anything.”

The weather was still gloomy by Friday when they had their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Moody. Draco only knew the man because of his father’s distaste for aurors. He’d only heard bits and pieces at the dinner table when his father’s friends came over but he could understand the contempt when he finally saw him up close in the classroom. He almost smelled worse than he looked, probably coming from whatever it was he vigorously drank down every few minutes. 

But Draco was nonetheless interested when he announced they’d be learning curses - _illegal_ curses at that. He showed the imperius curse on a dancing spider, floating about the air like a trapezist. He’d heard about the imperius curse enough. Many of his parents' old friends had been under that curse back when the Dark Lord had been alive. That’s what he’d been told. But they’d never meant to do all the things they were said to have done. And that’s what mattered, right?

“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?” Moody’s gravelly voice inquired.

Granger’s hand shot up, as per usual, the know-it-all. But near the front, a hand Draco recognized too well, slowly raised itself, as if it didn’t realize what it was doing either. Moody called upon Neville.

“Th-there’s the um… the Cruciatus curse.”

“The torture curse,” Moody nodded solemnly, “Longbottom, was it? We’ll need this a little bigger for you to really get the idea.” He waved his wand sharply and the spider grew until it could be seen clearly sprawled on the desk. And then, in a low growling voice, “ _Crucio!_ ”

Even from the back of the classroom where Draco sat, he could see the spider convulsing, shuddering, twisting as if someone was needling a sharp knife inside of it, digging down under its skin, pulling it apart. It was a spider, barely an animal, and yet Draco could feel its pain. It looked like it was going to rip itself up, tear itself in two, a mess of spindly legs.

“ _Stop it!_ ” Granger shouted. He followed her gaze which hadn’t been on the spider, but on Neville. Draco couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were shaking, ever so slightly, his hands clenched so tightly on his desk they turned white.

Moody raised his wand and the spider stopped. A leg twitched in recoil as it shrunk down to its normal size, “You don’t need knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse.” 

“And the last curse. Anyone?” Moody swiveled his eye around on Granger.

She looked straight ahead, all the usual joy of answering questions lost from her voice, “The killing curse.”

Moody’s face twisted into a crude smile, “Yes, the last and worst.” 

“ _Avada Kedavra_!” Moody roared and all twitching of the spider ceased in a bright green light. 

As soon as the class had been dismissed, Neville was the first out of the room, walking in sort of a daze. But when Draco had exited, he saw him just a little ways up the corridor. His face was white and horrified, staring straight at the opposite wall. Draco, by instinct, almost went up to him, to try to help him. But by a stroke of luck, Potter, Weasley, and Granger had gotten to him first. Draco had nearly forgotten where he was, _who_ he was, when he’d seen Neville’s lost eyes. 

“Comin’ Draco?” Goyle was nudging him gently from the side. 

He shrugged his bag firmer onto his shoulder and followed down the hall. 

After dinner he made his way to a secret passage he had found over the Summer in an older edition of Hogwarts A History. It had been another present from his mother. What could he say? She knew him well. The book had detailed maps of chambers and corridors that had long since been sealed off, but it didn’t take a genius to open them again. 

There was one out in the far courtyard underneath the awnings. At the point where the path came to a dead end where the courtyard stopped and the castle began, a wall was covered in creeping vines. Standing guard in front of the wall was an armoured statue with a placard that read “ _mori spes”._

Draco just clicked his tongue, shaking his head, and dusted his finger on the chest of the armour in the fashion of an X. When the armour came to life and pulled aside the vines, revealing a small door, he couldn’t believe someone would really make a “secret” passageway that simple. 

He waved a small salute to the guard and climbed the hidden spiral staircase, submerged in darkness beside the small light he emitted from his wand. It took him quite a long while of huffing his way up the steps but when he finally reached a door at the top of the staircase, he found himself coming out into the exact seventh floor corridor he wanted. Hogwarts was a living, breathing organism, he knew, but it was always a bit unnerving when it seemed to be staring straight at you. He gave a silent thank you to the quiet halls and stained windows and made his way to the room. 

And inside, there was Neville, sitting beside the window. It was still raining, distorting the bleary images of the countryside until it was like looking into a rippling pond. Neville heard the door and his approaching footsteps and turned around. 

He cracked a thin smile and turned back to the window. Once Draco had made it close enough, he stopped and watched the rain drops glimmer and slide down along the panes, like a meteor shower. It seemed like minutes of silence were just passing by. He’d waited all day to speak to him and now he could only remember the spider, curling in on itself from pain. A mess of legs. 

“Moody is uh… quite the teacher, eh?” 

Neville nodded dreamily, paying more attention to the blurring colors, “After class, he took me aside and he gave me a book. Apparently he knew I liked herbology.”

“Oh?” Draco sat on the ledge beside him. “Then he’s not as bad as he seems?”

Neville didn’t say anything and they sat in silence for a while, something they had done often last year, except most of the time they kept themselves occupied with reading or homework or the like. Now they just sat and watched the downpour of rain on the glass, listening to the patter, the distant thunder, and their calm breathing. Neville was scraping the remnants of frog guts out from under his fingernail.

“Do you think the Cruciatus Curse… do you really think it hurts that much?”

Draco looked up at the reflection of his hazel eyes in the window. The image of the spider swirled around his mind, “I’m sure it isn’t as bad as he says it is. He’s just an old retired auror trying to scare us, that’s all.”

Neville nodded vaguely, scraping at his nails. He got that awkward face on him where he wanted to say something, but was having trouble finding the words. “My parents…”

 _I know._ Draco was screaming in his head. _I already know how your parents ended up in St. Mungo’s. I know. It was my own aunt who did it. Don’t you know I think every day about the fact that if it wasn’t for her, you’d get to go home to a loving mother and father instead of that awful woman you call a grandmother? I know. I know. I know already._ “Yes?”

Neville took a breath, “You know how my parents live at St. Mungo’s?”

Draco gave a solemn nod.

“Well they… they were tortured with the Cruciatus Curse,” He wasn’t looking at Draco anymore, “Tortured until they couldn’t think.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Neville said aloud, “She’s your mother’s sister, you know.”

“Yes,” Draco said, “I know.”

Neville’s eyes were pink and puffy, bleary like the glass window before them, like he was going to cry. It was obvious he was trying not to show it, he kept turning his head away or brushing it off in the crook of his arm.

“Listen, is this about my parents being Death Eaters, again?” 

Neville’s voice was pitched up, “The riots. Harry said he saw you. There _were_ Death Eaters there. And - and you didn’t know where your parents were-”

“My father had gone out to talk to some Ministry people, and my mother had gone to meet up with one of her friends. I know that must sound very convenient, but it’s the truth.”

Neville wasn’t looking at him again.

“If you want my opinion, I think the fact that there are Death Eaters around even after You-know-who’s death is pretty stupid anyway. I mean it was stupid back then but now there isn’t even a point. They’re just destroying for the sake of destroying. It’s pointless.”

Neville gave him a glare, “And there was a point back then, was there?”

“Well with that guy as their leader, yeah. They thought they were going to take over the world or whatever, right? Get rid of all the muggles? I mean… I know I’ve joked about it but… I never meant anything by it. I don’t think killing a bunch of people is going to solve all their problems.”

“Enlightening. You should tell that to your father.”

“Look I’m not saying my father doesn’t agree with Death Eaters. He’s certainly said enough awful things. But I know he would never hurt anyone. He isn’t… he isn’t like that.”

Neville looked at him again, raising an eyebrow, “He’s never hurt you?”

All air escaped Draco, “I- Why would you even ask that?” 

Neville blinked hard, “It’s just the way you talk about him sometimes… I don’t know. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

It was true. But his father had only ever done it when it was necessary. It was only ever a slap to the face or nudge with his cane. But that was normal. All fathers were like that. He didn’t expect Neville to understand. 

“Listen I … I just want you to know, I’m not like them. I don’t want to _be_ them when I grow up.” Draco leaned towards him, trying to catch his eye, “I know that doesn’t mean much but… I just need you to know that.”

And Neville did return his gaze that time, without judgement, but rather with the look of someone searching. Like there was some puzzle written on Draco’s cheek. It wasn’t something he was used to. Someone looking at him and wondering who he was. It had always been the only known thing in his life - who he was. Who he was supposed to be. It was written in the stars before he was even born. There was a person he was meant to be.

But the more time he spent with Neville, helping him with his homework, playing the piano for him, playing silly card games like they were kids - they _were_ kids, and Neville kept reminding him of that. Draco’s whole life had been spent waiting to grow up, trying to turn himself into a replica of his father. But Neville was slowly, carefully, wiping that away. Draco didn’t know how he had let him, but he didn’t try to stop him. He was watching himself become someone else.

\--

It was towards the end of October when the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students arrived. The hillsides were draped in muddy orange and fiery red leaves as their own way of sprucing up before the ginormous carriage and sunken ship made an appearance. 

Neville often forgot that there were other wizarding schools around the world. In fact Neville really couldn’t think of any time he’d been outside of England except to go to Hogwarts. His grandmother wasn’t a big fan of travelling. But he did remember the stories his grandfather used to tell of their trips around Europe. Back when they were young, they used to ride through Italy on motorcycles. Neville didn’t believe him until he had the photo album to prove it. Black and white photographs of a much younger woman than Gran, grinning from ear to ear as she sat atop a bike. 

“ _See! Didn’t I tell you?_ ” His grandfather would say, pointing with one of his wrinkled fingers, shaking in the way grandparents always seemed to shake, always a tree in the breeze, “ _And she’s still just the same as she ever was!”_ No matter how many photos he was shown, he never really believed that last bit. He loved his Gran dearly, but he had never seen her smile like that. He just didn’t think she worked that way. 

It was a little strange though, seeing Viktor Krum in person - someone who previously only existed as a tiny figurine model and a name on the back of a jersey. He was a thousand times more terrifying, not his appearance but his demeanor. He was just so intense. Neville figured the young man could probably crush his skull between his hands if he felt like it. 

The times that they ate at meals he could see Krum at the same table as Draco, and that just made it all even more bizarre. In fact, by the next day when the names were pulled from the Goblet of Fire, it almost didn’t even surprise him that Harry was chosen. Sure, it was impossible and a fourth champion was unheard of - but the world in which Neville lived in had already shifted too far into the unbelievable. Last year he had found a secret room and became friends with the person he hated most, someone he used to be terrified of. Things like this just seemed par for the course at this point.

By the next few weeks, routine had settled in. Classes were going horribly once again for Neville, but it meant he could spend his time with Draco getting help, focusing more on actually learning rather than what to say in their quiet stretches of time together. 

In fact, it was really Draco’s idea to spend the next Hogsmeade visit together, which shocked Neville right out of his skin.

“Are you mad? You don’t think anyone will turn their head at you and me walking down to the village together?” 

“I didn’t mean _that_ ,” Draco rolled his eyes, “Just that we could stay behind together… Here. We’re always studying all the time and… well I just figured we could use a break or something, that’s all.”

Neville looked at him, a little disbelieving, “Wouldn’t your friends get suspicious… ?”

“They’re always suspicious,” Draco waved his hand around, “I’m barely in the common room anymore. I’ll just tell them what I always tell them.”

“And what’s that?”

“To _mind their own business.”_ When he smiled, he reminded Neville so much of one of those rococo paintings. “And what about _your_ friends? What’ll you tell them?”

The thought that his friends would even stop to wait for him hadn’t occurred to him at all. He always had to remind others he was there, otherwise he was forgotten completely, “I don’t think I’ll have to say anything.”

An autumn sun rose up that Saturday when they met and watched from their window the lines of students walking down the path to the forest, little dots of purple and pink and red and blue against the orange and taupe landscape. _There’s Seamus and Dean_ , Neville thought to himself. They were nothing more than ants from up here and there was nothing standing out in them that could distinguish them from the rest, but when you live with people for three years of your life, well, you just knew. Perhaps that, and the fact that their tiny pinpricked silhouettes were holding hands and swinging them back and forth, just the way they did when they were overcome with excited energy. It was a childish thing they did, and oftentimes they tried to bring Neville in to join them, but he really didn’t mind it. It was fun. Even if the girls gave them weird stares and laughed. It was still fun. 

He was staring down at them, smiling, when he could just barely see that Seamus was now trying to carry Dean on his back - a futile effort knowing that Dean now stood a good head and a half taller than him. When their particles toppled over into the mud, Neville couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“What?” Draco was staring at him incredulously, “What is it?”

Neville didn’t want to fully explain, otherwise he was sure he would take him for a lunatic. He stifled his laughter into a barely concealed grin and shook his head. Looking back at Draco, he could see that he was smiling now, a bit confused but it seemed his laughter had infected him too. 

What was possibly so strange to realize now was that he realized he wished they could be like that as well, walking down the path to Hogsmeade, swinging hands. He wanted to carry Draco, he was so sure he could if he tried. He wanted to fall into the dirt with him. He could see it so clearly in his mind, the crimson leaves stuck in his pale blonde hair, the earth falling over his back and arms and leaving grass stains on his knees. He would be smiling- no, he’d be laughing.

They played card games and chess, like they had done on Draco’s birthday, not really celebrating anything but their time together. All the while he kept thinking of asking him if he’d want to go outside together. Just to walk around. Maybe they would keep their distance and no one would even notice. He kept getting ready to ask and losing all his confidence. He kept wanting to ask.

\--

As the end of November approached like a funeral procession, marching up to the castle, snapping dry leaves underfoot, the first task was all anyone could talk about anymore. It seemed like every morning at the Slytherin table, someone had come up with a new theory as to what it might be. Flying contests or spelunking races, tree climbing in the Forbidden forest or retrieving some lost artifact from the belly of the giant squid. The only good that came from these theories was that he could relay them to Neville. It was one of the few ways he could get Neville to talk about anything other than schoolwork. He seemed so focused nowadays - which was great for his grades, but it made him cling harder to their few meetings. He wanted to talk more to him. About anything. Everything. 

“Do you think the task might be decorating the whomping willow up like a Christmas tree?” Draco repeated the asinine words of a second year who had spoken up over breakfast, “So they have to tackle the tree with popcorn strings and a star and they get points based off who has the least amount of bones broken?”

That had at least earned him a laugh as he tapped his wand to erase away a bit of spilled ink on his paper, “No. The task would have to be way harder than that. Or at least ten times more life threatening.”

“What? So you think _you_ know what the first challenge is going to be?”

Neville shrugged, “Heard it from Ron the other day.”

“And how reliable _is_ Weasley?” Draco said with an air of distrust.

“Well,” Neville leaned his head to the side, “Seeing as how it was his own brother Charlie who brought the damn dragon over, I’d have to say he knows for certain.”

Draco furrowed his brow, “How the hell does someone get a dragon into the Forbidden bloody Forest without the whole _school_ noticing?”

“Dunno, Draco, probably magic?” Neville said sarcastically, flipping the page of his Charms textbook.

He shot him a look, narrowing his eyes, “Have _you_ seen this thing?”

“No?” Neville looked up at him, “But I know where it is.”

The Slytherin just sort of looked at him and then meandered his gaze to the door, and then slowly back to Neville. He raised his eyebrows, “Well?”

“Well?” Neville repeated.

“ _Well,”_ Draco reiterated, “Why don’t we have a look for ourselves?”

A shocked laugh escaped from Neville’s mouth, “Of course! Why don’t we stroll down to the clearly marked _Forbidden_ Forest and take a peek at one the most dangerous beasts on the planet! That does sound like a nice way to die if you ask me.”

“Oh please, there are at least ten things more deadly in that forest than a dragon.”

“You do realize how that makes it worse right? I need to know that you know that it makes it infinitely worse that there are hundreds of bloodthirsty animals in the forest instead of _just_ a dragon.”

Somehow or another, he was able to convince Neville to meet him that night in a small corridor off the main entrance hall. Though they were supposed to meet at twelve o’ clock sharp, and as Draco looked down at his silvery watch glinting in the moonlight, he was already fifteen minutes late. It always filled his stomach with butterflies, hiding out in the halls of the castle at night. It was easy enough to hide behind statues and tapestries, or covering himself between curtains as he was currently doing. But he always felt as if he was being watched - which he was. Portraits followed him quietly with their eyes and the uneasiness never went away. 

When he felt something grab the curtain around his arm he nearly screamed.

“Shh! It’s only me!” A voice whispered.

Neville’s face was blue in the darkness, barely even visible, but it helped calm his nerves to see him in his pajamas no less. A knitted vest pulled down over his front and suspenders clipped onto his trousers, holding them up. He looked down to see he was even wearing night slippers.

When Neville noticed he was staring he said defensively, “It’s quieter than dress robes.”

Draco laughed silently and nodded.

They crept around statues, listening for footsteps and making their way out to the lawn. There was only a sliver of moonlight to go by, but Draco supposed that was lucky. If it had been brighter, it would have been easier to get caught. Still, they both kept stumbling around in the dark over unseen rocks and uneven terrain as they made their way towards the Forbidden Forest. The nearer they got, the slower their pace had gotten until they stopped dead in front of the first line of trees, staring into a seemingly never ending stretch of darkness. They couldn’t risk lighting a wand, someone would see it for sure.

“I think this was a bad idea,” Neville was staring straight into the forest. He reminded him of the frightened boy he had scared off in the very same forest all those years ago, “We should go back.”

As tempting as that seemed to Draco now, he felt he could do anything as long as Neville was there with him. 

“Are you kidding? We came all this way already. I want to see a dragon.”

“You can see the dragon tomorrow in the tournament! Let’s just go back.”

“I want to see it with _you_ , Neville.”

He visibly stiffened next to him, caught off guard by the hidden sentiment in his words. It was true. Everything nowadays reminded him of Neville. He only wished he was always there with him to look at everything. If this was some small thing they could share, Draco wanted to hold onto it. It would hurt too much to go back down to the cold dungeons again, now. 

Neville gave him a side glance, swallowed, and entered the forest. Draco followed a few steps behind, soon catching up and walking out ahead of him. Even if Neville had begrudgingly agreed to go with him, he didn’t want him hurting himself on his account. They walked until the moon and the stars were covered up by thick canopies of treetops. The dark became sentient like it was something you could touch and feel. The quiet of the forest muffled his ears before every tiny crack of a leaf or stick sounded like thunder and lightning. Every once in a while, they would brush into a tree or bush, but for the most part it was all just a heavy feeling of emptiness that curled itself atop them.

Draco nearly jumped out of his own skin when he felt a clammy hand brush up against his and hold onto him. Realizing it was just Neville, he held it back just as tight. It was an anchor he was tied to and no matter how pointless it was, he felt safe. Nothing could hurt them now. He trudged forward into the darkness.

It was just as Draco realized how easy it would be for them to get lost, never finding their way out, that he thought he could see something to his right, far away - or at least he thought it was his right, he felt a little dizzy now. It was a tiny spark of light.

“Look,” He whispered.

He only heard a tiny breath of air come from Neville and his hand squeezing just a little bit harder. Draco led them toward the light which grew in size, red hot and fiery and lit up the world around them. There was something in those flames, enormous and scaly, furiously whipping its head around on its long neck. There were men too, waving their arms and holding onto ropes. 

Draco grabbed onto Neville’s shoulders and plunged them both behind a bush, pressing his hand to his mouth when it seemed like he was going to shout in surprise. When Neville seemed to get the idea, he let go of him and they both peered between branches and leaves at the dragon. Even from this far away, the fire warmed them up from the otherwise freezing autumn night. There were more dragons farther away, he could tell, but the one that was closest, the one having a raging fit, was spiked in every direction, horns sticking out from its head, wings torn in some places but sharp talons marked each of its claws. Draco had never seen anything so beautifully terrifying. 

Draco looked to Neville, who he found was already looking at him, but he didn’t look away. He looked scared almost, his face a warm glow. But he wasn’t looking at the dragon. 

They had seen enough. Draco wanted to leave, “C’mon.” He whispered to him, crouching and sneaking away from the bush, back the way they came. He had turned his back already when he heard a rustle, a shout, and a dull thump come from behind him. He turned around and Neville was on the ground, fallen over. The leg of his pants was snagged in the bush and was now tangled up and stuck on a branch. 

Immediately, Draco knelt down to help him, but he already heard shouts coming from where the dragons were. 

“Did you hear that?”

“Coming from over there!”

There were already the sounds of footsteps coming their way and Neville's eyes were blown wide in terror. He was pulling on his pants to set himself free but it was no use. 

“Hold still,” Draco, in a split second decision, pulled out his wand from his pocket and cut the strings attaching him to the branch. As soon as he could move his leg again, Draco grabbed his arm and nearly dragged him through the forest.

“There they are!”

“Students aren’t s’posed to be here!”

“Would you go get them already?!”

\--

Neville nearly tripped trying to keep up with him. His long legs were no help to get him to go faster and the darkness made it that much harder to see. Branches kept smacking him in the face out of nowhere and at one point, Neville stumbled over a log jutting out into his path and fell right into a patch of gnarled and thorny bushes. Mud had splattered in his mouth and he was trying to wipe his eyes as he felt Draco grab onto the back of his sweater, pulling him up.

“We’ve got to keep going, just stay behind me!” Draco took his hand and kept running making sure to tell Neville when to duck or watch his step as they made their way out of the forest and across the grounds, creeping fog clawing at their feet. Every time they looked behind them they didn’t see or hear anyone following, but they kept running. Draco led them through the courtyard and around a side entrance, to an armoured statue.

“What are you doing? We need to go!” Neville whispered in a panic. His heart was bursting out of his chest.

Draco didn’t answer but used his finger to draw an X on the chest of the armour where there was already the outline of someone having done the same thing many times before. In an instant, the statue opened the veil of vines to reveal a door and Draco all but burst it open and pushed Neville inside.

For a while they just pooled themselves on the floor gasping for air. Neville didn’t even care how he looked, he laid on his back, hands on his stomach rising and falling with every breath he took. Soon the sweat on his forehead cooled him down and he opened his eyes to look around and found the small room they were in, completely dark. He hissed in pain as he grabbed his wand from his pocket waving it around to light up the place. The room was circular and held a spiral staircase that seemed to go on up forever as well as down a few more floors below them. 

“Draco, where are we?”

He shook his head a little, “Some secret place I found a while ago.”

It hurt a little, knowing he had kept this a secret from him too. He thought they were supposed to tell each other things like this. Maybe he was wrong.

“Neville, you’re bleeding,” Draco had knelt beside him all of a sudden, holding onto Neville’s wrist, turning over his wand holding hand, which was covered in little cuts and scrapes. 

“C’mon, you have to get cleaned up or someone’s going to notice.” Draco ordered him to keep still, taking Neville’s wand and placing it in his other hand, positioning it high enough to watch what he was doing.

Draco then took his empty hand, placing it in his own and one by one, gently tapped his wand and muttered under his breath until every little red sliver had healed over in a thin white line. Even after he was done, he kept looking him over with his sharp grey eyes.

“ _Tergeo,”_ Draco held his own wand steady in front of Neville, mud and dirt disappearing from his face, sucking in a bit of air and frowning at something revealed on his cheek. Draco held a careful hand onto the curve of his jaw and leaned in, close enough that Neville could feel the cool air of his breath on his sweaty face. Neville stopped breathing entirely, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. _Could he hear it too?_

Draco moved his wand up softly to his freckled cheek, so lightly it just barely ghosted his skin and whispered, “ _Episkey”_. The pain that had been slightly bothering him on his face, sealed itself away. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco spoke all at once when he couldn’t find anything else to fix, “That was dangerous, I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t. You could have gotten seriously hurt. And if those people had found us? I mean, your grandmother would’ve-”

“Draco, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I’m really sorry.”

Neville paused and nodded.

For a moment they just looked at each other. Neville could still see the fire in Draco’s eyes, the way they burned. It was like at any moment, flaming embers would come falling out, lighting up the tower like fireflies. In his staring, he had subconsciously leaned forward, not realizing how close they had gotten, just a few breaths apart.

Draco turned his face away from him.

Neville felt like his face was on fire and he pressed the backs of his hand to himself, hoping the coolness of his skin would release some of the heat. 

His voice broke terribly when he tried to speak, “Do these stairs go up to the seventh floor?”

“Yes,” Draco was nodding, still flustered. He helped Neville to his feet.

“Goodnight, I-” He short circuited for a second before shaking his head. “Goodnight,” He said a little more firmly. And with that, Neville watched him walk down the steps and plunge into darkness.

It was a long way up, but it was much quicker than the moving staircases, and when he exited, he found himself just around the corner from the Gryffindor common room.

“Balderdash,” He whispered to the Fat Lady, who only peeked at him through one eye before nodding back to sleep, opening up the entrance. Since last year, he had made sure to memorize the passwords, it was tough, but he took to writing them down on his forearm with one of Dean’s ballpoint pens, that way, there wasn’t any way for a blood thirsty criminal to steal it. Though of course the grizzly scene of his skin being torn off his hand did cross his mind from time to time and made him a little woozy.

He crept through the common room, the fireplace long gone out by now. It must’ve been incredibly early in the morning by now. He stepped carefully up to his dorm, avoiding every creaky plank of wood, kicked off his slippers silently and curled up in his bed. 

Absentmindedly, his hand kept grazing across the skin above his ankle, where he had gotten stuck in the bush in the forest. It stung and as his finger glided along a thin line, he could feel the warm, wet sensation of blood. 

\--

The first task came and went. Draco had been so tired from the night before, he could barely keep his eyes open for the most of it. The dragons looked so different in the light of the day, their scales like the wind beaten rocks of a cliff. He mostly just felt sorry for them, chains rattling around their necks whenever they moved. He couldn’t stand the thought of them chained and caged all their life. Never before had he cared for the creatures Hagrid had taught them about. Most of them were vicious enough to him directly, it was hard to wish they were free to peck at him more. But the dragons were graceful. They were sublime. Draco often wondered what angels were supposed to look like, if they really did exist - but now he thought he knew. They were winged and scaley and breathed fire and they were being trapped down here on earth.

He almost wished the dragon would just attack Harry and break free. Though it was a very small voice in the back of his head, and he tried to drown it out with the cheering and booing coming from the stands. Overall, he was just bored. He searched the Gryffindor stands, looking for a mop of unkempt hair, but no matter how long he stared, he couldn’t find him.

Midway through December, Snape called the Slytherins into the common room for a meeting. It was something he hardly ever did, only when absolutely necessary. The man never seemed comfortable in their living quarters. Then again, he never seemed comfortable anywhere. 

It was only the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh years, but they were all piled on green and washed out gray sofas and lounge chairs, surrounding the Potions master who stood silhouetted against the enormous window looking out into the depths of the lake, which had turned a murky shade of emerald since the storms of winter had begun. 

He spoke slowly, as he always did when announcing some important piece of information, “Your headmaster felt it necessary for you to hear it from your head of house that there will be… a Yule Ball… as is tradition.” He glanced around at the people who had already dissolved into conversation over this, silencing them with his pitch dark eyes. “Now although it may be … a dance, that in no way gives any person standing in this room the freedom to act like raving lunatics.” He enunciated every syllable.

“School rules apply much the same way at the ball. If I personally find anyone breaking these rules, you can expect to never attend another Tournament task, Hogsmeade visit, or Quidditch game for the remainder of your time at Hogwarts.”

Almost as an afterthought he added, demanding more than informing, “You will arrive at eight o’clock sharp in the Entrance Hall, Christmas Day and be back in your dormitory before midnight”

“Wear dress robes. If I see _even_ _one sneaker_ …” He trailed off before dismissing them with a wave of his hand and exiting sharply. 

The very next day, Neville asked him, “Have you ever been to a ball?” McGonagall must have told her students as well. 

“No, I haven’t.”

“Me neither,” Neville’s eyes cast downward, “It sounds terrifying. I mean, I don’t even think I know how to dance.”

“What? You spend all that time listening to music and you never learned?” 

Neville perked up, “Do _you_ know how to dance then?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “A little. Only the basics. Mother thought it was important.”

“Is it difficult?”

Draco pulled a smile as sly as a cat’s, “Terribly.”

“No, Draco, please c’mon be honest!”

“It is though! It takes years to perfect! There’s no way you’ll be able to learn before Christmas, unless-”

“Unless?”

“Well,” Draco was just playing with him now, it was like the weeks of awkwardness between them had melted away, “Unless you had a teacher who was so amazing and perfect that could help you. He would also have to be incredibly talented and smart and also dashingly handsome.”

Neville rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “See, but I don’t know anyone like that.”

“Well, I’m as good as you’re going to get.”

They had to go digging around the stacks of records near the gramophone before they found a sleeve titled, “A Collection of Waltz and Dance Music.” It was like the room knew exactly what they needed and handed it to them. Draco waved his wand at the couches and chairs, pushing them towards the walls, providing a well sized clearing in the middle for them. Then with another flick of his wand, the needle knelt down to the record and began to play a typical waltz - something his grandmother would have highly approved of. 

Draco turned to him finally, “Tell me the tiniest bit you know about waltzing.”

“You’re supposed to hold hands.”

“Okay,” Draco grabbed his right hand with his left and ghosted his other hand on Neville’s shoulder blade, only just now realizing how tall he had gotten, “Hold onto my shoulder with your other hand.” Neville complied, placing his hand rather limply. 

“Now a waltz is just a simple box step. I’m going to lead so just follow me okay? I step forward,” Draco did so, “And you step back.” Neville followed. “And then to the side with your other foot. And then back. And now to the side- oWH”

“Sorry!” Neville had stepped hard down on his shoe and Draco let go of him completely.

“Ahhh!” He tried to vocalize the pain, hoping it would go away, “It’s okay, it’s fine. You were doing great up until then. You just need to know the timing.”

He let out a breath from his teeth and straightened up, “Okay, so the music, yes? You can hear it right?”

Neville looked at him like he was speaking gibberish, “Yes?”

“It goes like that, yes?” Draco was nodding and bouncing his finger up and down in the air, like a rabbit hopping in a field,” _One two three. One two three. One two three. One two three._ Mmm-bop-bop, like that. That’s how you know where you are in the dance. There’s three basic movements. There’s the forward movement, then to the side, and then closing together.” He illustrated as he talked, placing his hands in the air and moving to the beat of the music. “ _One two three_. Mmm-bop-bop. Like that.”

“Mmm-bop-bop?” Neville repeated stifling a laugh.

“Yes _,_ Neville, mmm-bop-bop. If you laugh, I won’t teach you, got it?” Neville held his mouth in a firm line and nodded, “Now, you try the steps.” Draco gestured to the space.

Neville went pink, but held out his hands as if holding onto an imaginary partner and although he hesitated and wobbled slightly on his left leg, he repeated the movements. _Forward, side, close. Back, side, close_. 

\--

“Good! You’re doing good. Can we try again?” Neville recognized Draco’s voice as the same one he’d use when he was teaching him something for potions or transfiguration or charms. It helped calm his nerves just the slightest bit. But still - dancing with him… he was worried he’d step on his shoe again or hold too tightly or his palms would be too sweaty or- or- or-

Draco grabbed his hand and held onto his arm, “You try leading this time, I’ll follow.” Neville held onto the back of his shoulder blade. 

“Ready? And- _one two three. One two three. One two three_ -” Draco kept counting on. They moved in a square as Neville led them on. He had never been good with coordination. Ever since he was a kid he’d been tripping on his own feet and as he held to Draco, he stared down at his shoes, waiting for them to mess him up. 

“Hey, look up,” Draco said, “Look at me okay? You should always be looking at your partner when you dance. That way you can work together. Plus, if you look down at your shoes the whole time the girl will think you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I _don’t_ have any idea what I’m doing.”

“Oh shut it. You’re doing perfectly fine.” Draco’s piercing smile cut into him. Neville tried to look at him, but he kept looking away. He couldn’t handle staring at him for too long. With his eyes like spotlights, it was just too overwhelming, he felt blinded. Draco’s eyes were grey. Like the clouds blanketing the view outside the window. Like marble. Like fog. Like smoke. 

Neville turned his head to look at the room spinning around him, bookcases raced past, chasing couches and tables. He looked back to Draco. He looked down at his shoes. He looked back to Draco. He looked away. It was like swimming in a pool, gasping for air before diving back underwater. 

“Focus!” Draco’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “Just focus on me. Listen to the music.”

Neville had to admit the waltz music was fun. More so than the actual dancing part of it. But to have this secret language that it used to speak - something sacred and passed down, something to share with someone else - that felt special to him. It felt like its own kind of magic. 

They practiced every day after that. At first, Neville’s legs and feet felt sore from it, but soon he worked himself up and the movements became like a second nature to him. As he got better at it, Draco taught him more. 

It was the day before the term ended that they got to a point where Neville could try the lift - which came much easier than he expected, possibly due to the fact that Draco weighed 90 pounds at most. The memory of holding him just right, lifting Draco above him, the surprised grin plastered on his face was burned in his mind. Draco nearly pushed him over in a tight hug, “You did it! That was perfect!”

Neville had not been hugged since… since… well he really couldn’t remember ever being hugged, but it must have been a very long time ago because it felt foreign wrapping his arms around Draco. His face brushed against silky flaxen hair and his nose stung from the smell of sharp mint and rosemary. 

Draco let go and beamed up at him, now actually pushing into his chest playfully, “You’re gonna fucking _kill_ it at the Yule Ball. The girls are going to be _all over you_ . No one’s ever gonna suspect _Neville fuckin’ Longbottom_ to pull up with the moves. Of course it’s all thanks to his secret weapon, the ever charming and remarkably handsome-"

“Stop, oh my god-!” Neville had been pushing his probing hands away and was now blushing as red as a tomato from laughing so hard. 

“So,” Draco had a coy smirk on his face as he respectfully tucked his hands under his armpits as Neville caught his breath, “Have you got your date yet?”

Neville panted out, “Huh?”

“Have you asked someone yet? You need a date to go to the ball.”

“Oh. Uh… No, not yet. Have you?”

“Pansy asked me right after Snape told us,” Draco shrugged.

“Oh.”

“D’you know yet who you want to ask? There’s only a week left… You might want to get on that.”

“Right. Um… well I was thinking I might ask Hermione.”

“Granger?” Draco’s face had twisted in confusion. 

“Yes,” Neville said in defiance, wiping the sweat from his face and sitting down on one of the nearby couches, “Hermione.”

Draco looked like Neville had just told him he liked to keep handfuls of worms in his bag, “Why?”

“Because she’s nice and smart and she really helps me a lot.” Neville watched Draco’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, “And she’s pretty.”

Draco gave him a very pointed look. 

Neville shook his head, “If you say one bad thing about her… ” It was an empty threat but he really meant it. And he really did believe those things about her. He never understood why everyone disliked her. Sure she was persistent and a little scary sometimes, but most girls Neville knew of were like that. And he really thought she was cool, being able to know and remember so many things. Sure, most people thought she was showing off, but who wouldn’t with a mind like hers? Sometimes she even reminded him of Draco a little bit in that way - but he was sure if he mentioned that to either of them, he would regret it. 

And she was pretty as hell! No matter what anyone else had to say. Her tight curly hair flowing down in ringlets that reflected the sun. Her dark eyes seemingly always ready to reply with a witty remark. And when she smiled or, _heavens_ , if she laughed? It was hard not to feel like the luckiest person on earth. She was beautiful.

Though when he did end up asking her to the ball, she politely declined. She had already been asked. 

Shame flooded his stomach, but it was nothing he hadn’t experienced before and he honestly, he felt a wave of confidence rushing over him. They were in the common room and she turned and walked out of the portrait hole. Neville watched her go before turning around. Ginny Weasley was sitting at one of the tables near the entrance, staring at him, having just watched him get rejected.

“Do you want to go to the ball with me?”

Her eyebrows lifted to the top of her forehead. She glanced around to make sure nobody had noticed he had asked her before turning back to him. She accepted, knowing he would be the best she could get if she wanted to be able to go to the ball at all. “Sure.” She nodded. “Okay.”

The following week, Neville wrote home to his grandmother, asking for her to send some dress robes and to tell her who he was taking with him to the Yule Ball. A couple of days later a vulture with patches of missing feathers dropped a large package for Neville at the Gryffindor table, landing right in his breakfast. Attached, a note simply read: “ _Proud of you. Have fun. Don’t do anything stupid. Love, Gran._ ” His relationship with her was getting somewhat better. He could tell she was trying at least. But that also meant she spoke very little to him - probably worried that the more she said, the more she would unintentionally insult him. At least she was trying.

From across the hall, he could see Draco smirking to himself, seeing the balding vulture ruffle its few remaining feathers and take flight once more out of the room. Neville gave a shrug and a smile back. That had been Penelope, his grandmother’s bird. There used to be two of them, Penelope and her sister Melanippe, but the latter had a bit of a visual impairment and crashed into the side of the house one stormy night and she was immortalized into his Gran’s favorite hat. Only now upon thinking about it, he realized how morbid it was and quite glad she hadn’t done the same to his grandfather. 

\--

Neville woke up Christmas morning to the sound of tearing paper as his housemates tore into the presents stacked at the ends of their bed. 

“Merry Christmas, Neville!” Dean beamed as he opened a box of Bertie Botts. The rest of his housemates chimed in on the sentiment, but were a little preoccupied with their own presents. 

Outside, snow shuddered the glass window. The world had been painted white overnight. Even though the fire in their furnace was burning, the room was still so cold, and Neville kept his blankets wrapped around him as he leaned over the end of his bed, grabbing the few presents there. 

There was a package from his grandmother, a sweater with little horned penguins waddling around the desert; a package from his great uncle Algie and great auntie Enid, a black velvet coloring book of magical plants (they often forgot how old he was); and another package he wasn’t expecting at all. It was rather small and wrapped in simple brown paper. But in small scratchy handwriting it was addressed to him.

A warm, fluttery feeling rushed into his stomach. He glanced around the room, but of course everyone was too busy opening their presents and showing off what they had gotten. With shaky hands he carefully removed the paper, not daring to tear it to pieces, and opened the brown box that had been revealed. 

Inside laid a pewter brooch designed to look like a medieval lion. It was so small, and Neville really didn’t know why, but he almost felt like crying. And then the realization that he hadn’t gotten Draco anything in return hit him. The idea hadn’t even crossed his mind, he’d been so busy thinking about the Yule Ball. In fact, until this morning, he’d forgotten about Christmas entirely. 

“What’d you get, Neville?” Ron called from across the room.

He hastily grabbed the folded clothing at the end of his bed, “A sweater. What about you?”

Ron sighed, showing off his own purple and green hand-knitted sweater, “Me too.”

\--

That night he got dressed up in the robes his Gran had sent and was surprised to find that they fitted him almost perfectly. Every other piece of clothing he wore either felt too big or too small, nothing ever fit him right. He was tall and fat and the shoulders on clothing weren’t wide enough and the sleeves always stopped a few inches short of his wrists, but this time, this time everything fit just perfectly. If these weren’t dress robes, he would have worn them for the rest of his life. 

He used the bathroom to comb his hair, which had grown rather long, sweeping his bangs to the side and for a sudden, terrifying moment, he looked into the mirror and saw the reflection of his father looking back at him. Of course, not like the thin dewy eyed man who he had visited in St. Mungos every month since he could remember. But rather the pictures he saw of Frank framed around back home. Pictures from when he was a baby looked identical to the pictures of Neville as a baby, to the point that sometimes he couldn’t tell if it was himself in the photo or not. Then there were the pictures from his years at Hogwarts, dark fluffy hair combed carefully to the sides, freckles sprinkled across his face as he grinned from ear to ear, pushing up the golden aviator glasses on his nose. If he did not have the photographic proof, Neville could easily believe his father had never been any age but old. Then of course, sometimes Neville almost didn’t believe his parents had ever been anyone other than who they were in St. Mungo’s.

Neville looked in the mirror again, eyeing himself, and then took out the lion brooch, pinning it to his breast pocket. It ended up crooked, falling lopsided, but he didn’t feel like fidgeting around with it forever.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs to the common room, he spotted Ginny on the other side of the room, near the fireplace. She was hard to see through the sea of bright colorful clothing, but when he walked over, her friend who she had been talking to looked at him and said something to her. She turned around, almost worried at first, but at the sight of him, her eyes grew a little wider and her features softened.

“Neville you look…” He braced himself for her to say something awful, “You look really handsome.”

The way she said it in her enchanting tone of voice and the sweet curl of her smile, he knew she was telling the truth and felt his face go red. He knew now it was his turn to say something nice and his eyes dropped to her ultramarine and teal dress. The colors were washed out and dull, like a Monet painting and hot pink stars lined down the front.

“Your dress looks cool.” Neville wanted to jump into a dragon’s jaws, “Like a painting.” 

Ginny smiled brighter and jabbed her elbow into her friend who had dissolved into laughter, “Thanks, Neville. That’s very sweet of you. Let’s go downstairs?” She said it as more of a statement than a question, offering out her arm.

By the first staircase they walked down, they realized the arm in arm business could prove fatal and they switched to holding hands, which turned very sweaty very quickly. Neville tried apologizing for his clammy hand, but she said she didn’t mind. 

Neville had only ever known Ginny as the Weasley brothers’ cooler younger sister, but he never knew her to be so kind and patient. He knew this was only a platonic date for a dance that she would have otherwise missed out on, but he couldn’t help falling a little bit in love with her. Really he knew it once they reached the trick step Neville was prone to fall in every time. She simply reminded him and helped him reach the next step. It was a small gesture, but it made Neville’s heart flutter. 

When they’d made it to the staircase entering the Entrance Hall, Neville scanned the tiny crowds of people standing around. It only took him a few seconds to spot Draco, arm in arm with Pansy Parkinson, surrounded by other Slytherins. Apparently, he had just said something funny and they all laughed as Draco beamed. He turned his head as he grinned, but it was then that he locked eyes with Neville. The smile faded, and his eyes widened, just as Ginny had done earlier. His mouth hung slightly open as he watched him walk down the steps. Time seemed to slow down and Neville prayed to every god that he wouldn’t trip. Draco blinked, gave the smallest hint of a smile, and immersed himself back into his conversation.

While they waited for the doors to the Great Hall to open, they meandered along the front lawn of the castle, watching the fairies that danced in the air and skirted around bushes. They wandered around the statue of Father Christmas and his reindeer, neither really wanting to stop walking, mostly because of the cold, but also because that meant they would actually have to talk, which didn’t come as easily now. Neville stood around and watched as Ginny grabbed piles of snow with her bare hands, piling it onto the head of one of the reindeers, sculpting him a white mohawk. 

“Hey, there you are,” A voice said from behind, “We’ve been lookin’ for you for ages.” 

Neville turned to find Seamus, Dean, and Lavender Brown, all adorned in their formal outfits of black and maroon and gold. Very quickly their group separated as Lavender and Ginny went off a little ways to talk and the boys were left, standing with their hands stuffed in their pockets.

“Freezing isn’t it?” Neville said staring up into the sky, “It’s a miracle it isn’t snowing.”

“Look at them,” Seamus nodded to the girls, standing off by the reindeers, “They don’t even have jackets on. I hope Lavender isn’t expecting me to give her mine.”

“Yours would be too small for her anyway,” Dean smiled a smile that made even his insult seem flattering.

“Haha very funny,” Seamus’s teeth were chattering, “You couldn’t even get a date to the ball.”

“Because I thought _we_ were going together.”

“Dean, two mates going to a dance together just looks funny. I thought you were jokin’ about that.”

“Loads of people are going as friends. There’s nothing funny about that.”

“Yes there is. Neville _you_ agree with me right?”

“Uh,” Neville glanced in through one of the large arched windows, “I think they’re opening the doors now.”

The clock tower chimed as it struck eight o’ clock and the couples all gathered into the Entrance Hall. The doors opened to reveal a sparkling Great Hall with ice frosting the walls and garlands of mistletoe hanging from the black sky above. Neville, Seamus, Dean, Lavender, and Ginny, all sat together at one of the many smaller tables that had replaced the long house tables. It took awhile for the rest of the crowd to be seated and Seamus began to play with the candle that had been placed on the table, sprinkling leaves that had fallen from the garlands into the flame and watching them shrivel and evaporate in the air. He seemed like he was having a grand time worrying the hell out of Dean, who kept trying to smack him away from the candle.

Once everyone had been seated, the four champions and their dates entered the hall, sitting at the top table at the far end of the hall. Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang. Fleur Delacour and the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, still in awe she had picked him. Victor Krum and Hermione (which relieved him a little, knowing she had actually been asked by someone, not to mention the fact she’d been asked by one of the top Quidditch players in the world. It just made him feel a little better). And last, Harry and Parvati Patil. Neville noticed out of the corner of his eye that Ginny hadn’t taken her eye off of Harry since he had entered the room, her smile long gone and now replaced with a silent focus.

It was as he had been glancing at her, that he inadvertently realized that across the room, Draco was staring at him, which startled him more than anything. As soon as Draco realized he was looking back at him, he whipped his head back to the top table where the champions sat. Even from this far, he could see that he was bouncing his leg, which Neville knew he only did when he was anxious. He glued his eyes to his napkin, folding it in odd places.

After the feast was over, a stage appeared and the band members of the Weird Sisters climbed atop in their ripped up black robes and wild dark hair that seemed to stick out in every direction. They grabbed the instruments that had been set on the stage - violins, cellos, trumpets, flutes, and a harp that had been sculpted to look like a sphinx. The champions and their dates had all collected closest to the stage as the band struck up a waltz, robes and dresses fluttering in the air like ripples in a stream as they swirled around the room. 

Seamus and Dean beside him were both giggling like hyenas watching Harry nervously follow Parvati. Lavender kept shushing for them to shut up as Ginny just stared at Harry. Her face was too hard to read but as soon as she noticed him looking her way, she said, “Do you want to dance?”

Neville looked around as more couples paired up and joined the champions at the center of the room. He also looked directly at Draco who was straight across from him on the other side of the room. He was watching the dancers too with the same unreadable expression Ginny had on. 

Neville held out his hand to her and she smiled, taking it and following his lead to the floor.

\--

“Draco, c’mon let's dance,” Pansy was squeezing his arm, trying to shake him from his stiff as a board stance. 

He watched the sea of couples spinning in time to the music, the girls being lifted into the air and brought back down in a whirl of colors. He watched Neville grinning as bright as the sun down at the ginger haired girl. 

“No, I don’t feel like it.”

Pansy gave a heavy sigh and stared at the twinkling lights playing on the ceiling, “This is boring. I’m bored.” 

Theodore nudged him with his elbow, “She’s right. I bet the Bulgarians are having way more fun outside right now.”

“What?”

Pansy was suddenly very interested in the conversation again, “Those Durmstrang students that eat with us in the morning? They said they were holding their own little party near the carriages.” Her face lit up and she shook his arm again, “We should totally go!”

Draco looked out into the crowd to find Neville, smiling and clapping along with everyone else as the band finished their song, “Sure. Whatever.”

The wind had picked up from the evening and the air was biting into Draco’s skin as the group of Slytherins made their way out through the courtyard, turning around several corridors before finally reaching the area near some stables where the carriages were kept locked up. Only one of them was clearly open and there was some laughter coming from inside. 

As they drew near, a dark shadow emerged from the carriage, rather tall but on the thin side. His face was flushed red but he just seemed cool and confident. Theo was the first to approach him with an air of familiarity, grabbing his hand and slapping him on the back, and looking back to the rest of them, “This is Stieg. He’s cool.”

Stieg waved to the rest of them, as two other Durmstrang students popped their head out the door, “This is Andrey and Charlotte. Charlotte’s the one who brought everything so really you should thank her.”

Draco was confused for a moment before Charlotte reached back into the carriage and brought out a couple of bottles, “I stole these off my grandma after she made me go on this stupid field trip.”

Charlotte passed out the perfume-like glass bottles from where she sat cross legged in the carriage and Andrey helped pop out the corks with his wand, though he did have a little trouble focusing it seemed. It had never really occurred to Draco how much older the Durmstrang students were. They had only brought seventeen year olds, which was probably only slightly younger than the drinking age back in Bulgaria. But Draco had never even considered trying alcohol, even though it wouldn’t be difficult at all to find in his home. It just reminded him of how stupid people seemed to act at parties. The smell made him sick. 

Andrey reached out to take Draco’s bottle so he could take the cork out, but Draco shoved it back in his hands, “I don’t want any.” Andrey just shrugged and uncorked it for himself and took a swig, taking a seat back inside the carriage. Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, and Theodore jumped to sit up on the top of the carriage and nursed their drinks, probably worried that the disgust was clear on their face from the taste.

Pansy tried to get Draco to join back with the rest of them, “Oh don’t be such a wet blanket,” Pansy had already had a few sips, and it was clear she was trying to hide a sour expression. She held onto his arm again and Draco all but jumped out of her grasp, yanking himself away from her. Now her face really did turn sour.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her eyebrows knitted together. Draco turned and noticed everyone else watching them out of the corner of their eyes. Charlotte was laughing.

“Nothing.” 

Draco had to wait around while the rest of them giggled and drank. He felt like if someone else tried to speak to him or touch him, he might explode. Every little sound grated on his ears like nails on a chalkboard. He would rather be anywhere else in the world right now. He’d rather have Neville here to sit next to him. His heart suddenly weighed a thousand pounds in his chest. God he wished he was here right now. He wished he would take him away from here. Just the thought of him felt like the earth was pulling him down, it hurt. He didn’t know that could happen. He didn’t know it could hurt this much to want someone near you.

The mere thought that there were people who were allowed near him every day, all the time - who didn’t have to worry about what people would think, who felt easy around him - it made Draco burn with jealousy. It wasn’t fair. There was someone probably around him right now, maybe even talking to him, and they didn’t realize how lucky they were. 

The music that reverberated through the walls of the castle picked up speed and turned electric, more like rock. Muffled sounds of people cheering drifted around the courtyard as Draco stewed in anger. 

“Oh!” Pansy shouted with glee, “They’re playing the good stuff now!” 

She took Charlotte’s hands and pulled her out of the carriage, “We _have_ to go dance, c’mon.” 

Charlotte didn’t seem opposed to the idea so everyone else left their bottles in the carriage. Theo and Stieg volunteered to stay behind and make sure no one found the stash. It seemed to Draco that no one had really had enough to really be intoxicated, except of course for Andrey, who leaned against Goyle for support. Draco was just glad to get away from it all. 

The Great Hall was dark now except for the flashing stars above, making it seem like time was slowing down and freezing every other second. The band had guitars and drums now, loud enough to pierce an eardrum. The music and the shouting and the lights made it feel like everything was a dream. Nothing felt real anymore.

He could only feel himself being guided along with the others into the crowd until they were almost near the stage. It felt like he was walking through tall grass, if the grass was pushing and shoving and sweating all over you. Looking around, he noticed it was mostly seventh years standing around him - and all Quidditch players too. He could see Crabbe and Goyle up ahead throwing each other around and watched as more people followed suit, ramming into each other. Soon it was everyone around him and he felt like he was drowning. _Oh my god I’m going to be buried alive._

\--

Once the music had changed, and the crowd had formed, Neville had moved to the wall, hoping to avoid the mosh pit that had bloomed. He was still holding a drink he had gotten for Ginny. She said she was going to try to get to the very front of the stage and that she’d be right back. Neville really, really liked her. Maybe not romantically, but she was the coolest person he knew. He couldn’t believe he’d never talked to her before. 

And just as he took a sip of the punch in his frost covered glass, she appeared out of the crowd, red hair ruffled and tangled up, her freckled face glowing pink as she laughed.

“Did you make it?” Neville shouted.

“What?” Ginny shouted back, taking her glass and gulping the punch down.

“ _Did! You! Make! It! To! The! Stage!_ ” 

“Can’t hear you!” She finished her drink and left it on a nearby table, “Let’s go!”

She held onto his hand and steered him out into the Entrance Hall. It was like breaking out from underwater and his ears took a few seconds to the change in volume. The warm glow of the candles and torch lights were like comforting pillows to his eyes after staring at the strobes for so long. Ginny brought them over to one of the walls of the corridor and sat down, patting the floor beside her for Neville to sit. He slid to the ground and for a few minutes they just sat in silence, listening to Ginny’s breathing even itself out. 

“So,” Ginny said after the silence had gone on long enough, “Are you having fun?”

Neville found he couldn’t stop smiling around her, “Yeah. Are you?”

She nodded. “Thanks for letting me go with you.”

Neville shrugged, “Sorry you couldn’t go with Harry.”

“ _What_?” She whipped her head to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Well, I mean… You’ve been staring at him all night. And Ron said he almost set you up with him before he found out you were going with me… Anyway, sorry about that.”

She still looked uneasy, staring straight ahead now away from him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to out you like that I just-”

“You don’t have to apologize so much,” Ginny brought her knees up to her chin, “I didn’t realize I was so obvious.”

Actually, Neville was pretty sure he always knew she liked him. Ever since she was a first year she was always looking at him in that way of hers. He was almost certain _everyone_ knew. It just wasn’t out of the ordinary, loads of girls had a crush on Harry. Hell, even _he_ had a crush on Harry when he was younger. Who wouldn’t? 

“It wasn’t that obvious, it was just a guess.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around her knees and turned to stare at him. She squinted at him like there was something written on his face in tiny letters. Neville half-worried there was some large pimple on his forehead.

“What?”

“There’s someone _you_ like isn’t there?”

His answer was immediate, “No, of course not why would you think that?”

She straightened up, “So you _do_ like someone! Who is it?”

“I don’t like anyone!”

“Oh, it’s Hermione isn’t it?”

“No it’s not Hermione-”

“So there _is_ someone you like?”

Neville felt like he was back in his first year, everyone always asking each other who they liked and who they _liked_. It was juvenile. But Neville had never been asked this sort of thing before. It didn’t seem important to anyone to know who he liked. So in that weird way, he found Ginny’s probing to be a little flattering. 

She scooted closer and leaned her head against his shoulder, “I’ll find out. Just you wait.” 

The weight of her head on his shoulder made him feel like the most important person in the world, “I really don’t think you’d ever find out in a million years.”

“Is it someone in our house?”

“Stop.”

“Is it Lavender?”

“No.”

“Is it Parvati?”

“I’m not going to say yes to anything, so you can give up now-”

The sharp sound of footsteps emerging from the Great Hall took away Neville’s attention. 

He looked in the direction of the large open doors and saw that it was Draco who had stomped out, bracing himself against the nearest wall and leaning his head back. His face was twisting with emotion and he looked like he was going to cry. He looked _scared_.

It was like Neville forgot where he was. He jumped to his feet and rushed over to meet him, barely hearing Ginny, “ _Neville, what? What are you doing_?”

Neville held onto him and Draco looked about as shocked as Ginny sounded, but he didn’t seem to care, “Can we get out of here? Please?”

Ginny had only been a few steps behind Neville, “Oh my god are you crying?” She was almost laughing.

Neville turned to look at Ginny and then back at Draco. He’d never seen him like this. 

She stepped forward, “Neville, let’s just go, he’s not worth it.” He had to wonder what this looked like to her. Did she think he was going to hit him or something? He didn’t know what he would have done if they weren’t friends. He probably would have laughed like Ginny. He probably wouldn’t have cared so much.

“Ginny, I have to go.” 

She looked bewildered, “Have you gone mad?”

“I’ll explain later, I promise,” He was already holding the black velvet of Draco’s sleeve and leading him away quickly.

He thought he heard her shout something else out but he couldn’t really hear her anymore. They were outside now. They took the secret spiraling staircase behind the armoured statue and as they ascended up the steps, Neville held onto Draco’s hand, for once not caring whether his palms were sweaty or not. He just held on tight. 

He kept wanting to look behind him, to see that Draco was really still there, but he was so afraid of seeing him cry, or worse, him not there at all. He was worried if he looked behind him, he’d disappear into smoke and Neville would be left all alone in the empty tower.

They hurried up the last few steps and into the Room of Requirement. Neville took out his wand from his inside pocket, waving the red lanterns alight high above them. It was only when they reached the window and Neville had nowhere left to lead him that he turned around to face him. 

\--

Draco was looking away, eyes flitted up towards the ceiling, blinking hard, breathing uneven. He wanted Neville to bring him into a hug, like they’d been able to do just a few days ago. He wanted to hold onto him until he existed again.

When Draco finally shook his head and brushed his sleeve across his eyes, Neville spoke, “What’s wrong?”

He took a few shaky breaths, “I hate my friends.”

It seemed like Neville didn’t really know what to say to that but he nodded a little. He must hate Draco’s friends even more than he did. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

Draco just shook his head. He didn’t want him looking at him differently. He didn’t know if he’d even understand anyway. He shook his head. 

Neville searched his face with round, worried eyes, holding his shoulders firmly. Draco appreciated the sentiment but moved away from his grip. He was just feeling too many things all at once, like the world was pressing in on him. He shook off the heavy suit jacket and threw it on the couch and nearly strangled himself getting out of the bow tie around his neck. 

When he turned around he saw that Neville had moved to rifle through the record stacks before finally finding one and placing it on the gramophone. A flush of pride washed over him as he watched him take his wand and wave it over the record player before setting down the needle. He had taught him a self flipping spell earlier on in the year and knowing that he had not only remembered it but was able to perform it without breaking anything made his heart skip a beat.

All at once, The Cure filled the room, echoing across the walls. It was like cool air rushing over him and almost instantly he felt better. He was here with Neville, who was grinning at him, nodding his head along with the music and Draco just felt right. 

Neville shook out of his own jacket, hanging it on the shoulder of a nearby statue, before coming a little closer to Draco. He held out his hand to him, “D’you wanna dance?”

They swung and swayed around to the music, nothing like the waltzes they had been practicing for weeks. They were just holding each other’s hands and moving along to the beat in any way they pleased. Any time the other seemed to have invented something new, the other would copy and follow. They often dissolved into laughter, knowing well enough how silly it all was. They jumped. They pushed each other around. They spun in circles until they couldn’t see clearly. They didn’t care if they looked like idiots. They were alone and they were having fun.

It was just as they had nearly run completely out of breath that the music had wound down to something quieter and slower, an eerie guitar track and a melancholy violin crying out. _To Wish Impossible Things_. Draco could remember the title now. 

Neville was still holding his hands and Draco could feel his pulse - both their pulse - thumping in his palm, like he was holding onto both their hearts, gripping it tightly so they wouldn’t fall out. For once he felt like he really could hear both their heartbeats - above the music and their labored breathing, he could hear it. Draco wrapped his arms around Neville’s neck, resting his head against his chest. Following his lead, Neville placed his hands carefully above Draco’s waist. 

It was painfully awkward at first, Draco could tell how shakey Neville’s hands were, not to mention how sweaty they both were. He kept worrying if he wasn’t being a little presumptuous in pulling him closer, not even daring to turn his head from where it lay. And all at the same time, they moved slowly to the music. 

“I’ve always dreamt about doing this.”

Neville’s gentle voice caught him off guard and Draco twisted his head to look up at him.

“Sorry, I’ve just always wanted to slow dance with someone,” He gave a silent, airy laugh - too embarrassed to even look down at him. His lip curled in a smile, dusting his freckled face in pink. 

Before Draco knew what he was doing, he closed the gap between them, placing a kiss in the corner of Neville’s smile. 

And all at once the moment broke apart. Neville had pushed him away, eyes wide. 

Dread filled the pit in Draco’s stomach. It was everything he was terrified of. Every fear he had imagined suddenly facing him. Neville didn’t think of him like that. 

He didn’t wait for Neville to say something, he didn’t stop to grab his jacket, he marched toward the door, burning with shame. In his blind mortification, he unintentionally collided into the gramophone, knocking it over in a crash - the record slipping for a second before warping the sound and skipping over and over again. He didn’t stop for a second.

“Draco! Wait-”

But he was already out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to address the uglier side of draco’s character in this one though I’m not too sure I did it complete justice so sorry about that. But i felt like it would be important to neville. Personally book draco is a little shit and i dont care much for him so i’m trying to write him as a real person (emphasis on trying) who just lets ppl influence his thoughts and actions too much
> 
> Also lmao i didnt really know a way to fit the ferret scene in without ruining it completely… idk sorry im sure that must be a favorite draco scene for some ppl
> 
> pls lemme know if there's more things i should tag!!! I'm bad at tagging sorry thanks


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to say that i rlly appreciate all the kudos and whatnot ;~; i truly adore every comment i read and it helps keep me going! To be fair, i would continue writing this fic even if no one was reading…. this is completely self indulgent … ik this isnt the most crackpot shit on ao3 but i keep feeling crazy for liking this ship and writing this dang ol thing… but yeah if u r reading this i love u thank you for reading.. 
> 
> Warning! This chapter has vomiting towards the end!

Neville felt the air shift around as the door shook the precarious mountains around the room. His heart pounded in his ears and in his palms and way down in his chest, a beating drum only he could hear. He hadn’t moved from where he’d been paralyzed, replaying the moment over and over again in his head. Had it even happened? Maybe he just blinked and imagined it.

But there was still the buzzing feeling in his lips like Draco had been there — was still there. They had barely touched each other, a split second where they leaned in and caught each other at the mouth - or, no — Draco had been the one to close the gap. 

Neville hadn’t even been thinking about kissing him and then-

And then Neville had pulled back — out of fear, confusion, surprise, he didn’t know, he really didn’t know. He had nearly jumped out of his skin when it happened. He was still shaking even now, adrenaline rushing through his veins, revealing blue stripes along the backs of his hands and up his forearms. He was terrified. 

It was just a kiss, barely even a kiss at that. Why was he so scared? 

_This isn’t normal._ He thought to himself. _Normal people don’t feel like this._

No, he’d never been kissed before in his life, but that was obvious. Anyone could take a look at him and know that. It wasn’t some big secret. No, he was never kissed on the cheek by a friend. Never a peck placed on a bruised knee or elbow after falling. Maybe there was some memory stored away in his mind, of his mother and father placing kisses atop his feather soft head as a baby. Maybe. But as far as Neville was concerned, he had never been _kissed_. Not like this. 

_Normal people don’t feel like this even after their_ first _kiss. Normal people kiss those people back. They kiss and dance and live happily ever after._

Why hadn’t he kissed him back.

_Why didn’t I kiss him back?_

He stared at the space in front of him, illuminated by red lanterns, the stone below him dusted over in age. He stared at the space in front of him and willed it to bring Draco back to where he stood. He wanted to go back. He wanted to try again. 

He was still shaking.

The same warbled note kept playing on the turntable, “ _All I wished is- All I wished is- All I wished is-”_ Until he knelt where it lay, crashed on its side, removing the disc from the needle. It was warped like a pancake now, completely ruined, but Neville couldn’t even bring himself to care. He chucked it into the pile with the rest of the broken records and left the room. 

At some point after walking on trembling legs, he made it back to the Gryffindor common room. In a daze, he snuck quietly into his dorm, pulling his shoes off, his fingers slipping as they untied the knot in the lace. The lion that Draco had given him slipped off his front. He had almost forgotten it was there at all. He placed it on the ledge by the window, letting the moonlight glint off the metal, sparkling on the tiny rubies stored in its eyes. The rest of his roommates were asleep -- except for Dean he realized, sitting up in the dark and staring at the empty bed across from him. Seamus’s bed.

“Dean!” Neville willed his voice to stay steady and was relieved to find it obeyed, “I hardly noticed you were up. Seamus still out?”

Dean nodded, trying to laugh off some of the embarrassment of having been caught staring.

“Lavender’s keepin’ him busy?” Neville offered.

That made a curious look flicker across Dean’s face, but he covered it back up just as quickly, “Yeah. I bet.”

Neville slipped into his pajamas, marveling how words were floating out of his mouth without having to think about it at all, “You had fun too I hope? Did you ask anyone to dance?”

Dean gave a smile, “Just Seamus.”

“Right.”

The bed shook as Neville shuffled under the covers.

“Well… night, Dean.” He whispered.

He thought he heard a muffled, “Night” from across the room, but he couldn’t be sure. 

He laid there, staring up at the ceiling. Numbly, he grazed his fingertips across his lips, hypnotized. Draco had been there, like a lover carving initials into the bark of a tree. As he drifted off to sleep, he imagined if someone looked closely at the corner of his mouth, they might find a tiny inscription.

D.M. 

At breakfast the next morning, the Gryffindor table was practically buzzing with energy. Word was that Snape had given out detentions last night, half of which to his very own students who had been playing rough in the mosh pit. Neville was just glad that Ginny had gotten out when she did.

And just as he remembered her glowing red face last night, she appeared next to him, hair done in braids and looking more serious than ever. She placed her hand on the empty stretch of table beside him, “We need to talk.”

Neville paused the last spoonful of oatmeal he’d brought to his mouth and glanced across the room to the Slytherin table where most students, including the Durmstrangs, looked sullen and quiet. And Draco was nowhere to be seen. Just as he’d been every few seconds as Neville had checked for the past hour. He swallowed down his pumpkin juice and followed her out of the Great Hall.

There were thick layers of snow blanketing the lawn but the sky was a clear blue. Their shoes crunched the glistening snow beneath them as they wandered off toward the lake. It was frozen over now but every once in a while, something dark shifted under the ice, sliding a tentacle along the underside of the frosted glass. 

Neville kept looking to Ginny, hoping she was meaning to say something first, but she just squinted into the sunlight and crossed her arms. She was only wearing a green striped long sleeve and a jean jacket to keep her warm and he really didn’t envy her. 

When they reached a small thicket of trees near the rocky beach, opening up onto a path, she pulled on his arm to stop him in the shade. She was frowning up at him but she finally spoke, “Why the hell did you ditch me last night?”

Neville opened his mouth and then closed it again, trying to find the right words, “I had to help him.”

“Okay, that’s the part I’m having trouble understanding,” She shook her head, “That was Draco Malfoy you were talking to, right? Not someone polyjuicing themselves as him? A very eerie doppelganger?”

“He’s…” How does one sum up the year spent with someone like him? The hours lying on the floor listening to records, watching him play piano, dancing with him, holding his hand. What did it all equate to? In the end, what were they? “He’s my friend.”

Her face morphed into one of blatant disgust and disbelief, “Neville, you’re _sure_ we’re talking about the same person right now? I mean, you do know how many times he’s - ?”

“I know. I know. Ginny, _I know_ , He’s a prick half the time. You’ve no reason to think otherwise. I know who he is. I know.”

“Okay… So you agree. So why the hell are you friends with him? _”_ She wasn’t asking out of anger; it was beyond confusion. “ _How?_ ”

But he supposed that _was_ a good question. Where did it start? He thought about the day Draco had been injured during Care of Magical Creatures, the jar of slime. He thought about the night they bumped into each other in the dark and he brought him into the Room of Requirement with him. He thought about the elbow struck into his nose, blood gushing to the floor and the subsequent punch he’d landed into Draco. He thought about their handshake. Everything had snowballed down a very steep mountain. It had all happened so fast. That’s just the way it seemed looking back.

“He tutors me,” That was a good start to it, “He’s helped me with potions. I’d have probably failed without him.” 

“ _Malfoy_ _?_ _Tutoring_ you?”

“Yes, Ginny. And he’s not half bad at it.”

She paused for a bit and began walking towards the path through the woods of the beach, “You could have just asked Hermione for help.”

He followed her through the trees, pines and evergreen twisting up into the sky and leaning over to keep them protected from the glare of the sun.

“How long has this been happening?”

“Since last year.”

“ _Last year?!”_

Neville bit his cheek.

“Who else knows about this?”

Neville just shook his head.

She sighed, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

He stumbled on his words, “He’s the only person who’s ever… I don’t know. He just… treats me different.” How could he explain. “I didn’t want to lose him.”

“You could have at least told someone.”

“You _know_ no one would believe me. And if they did… I mean, they would have done something about it. We-”

 _We promised._ They had made a promise way back then. That they should never speak about any of it. It suddenly felt so far away. He wanted to tell her everything. The dancing. The night they watched the dragons. The time Draco had healed him. The way his hands glided along a piano. The kiss. 

“We didn’t want anyone to know.”

She was ahead of him now, farther along the path. He followed behind, placing his shoes in the same footprints she had made, tracing the edges. 

“He’s dangerous you know that don’t you?”

Neville didn’t answer.

“I mean… I know he’s a wimp. I could break him in half if I wanted. He’s a fairly good dueler. But I don’t mean all that. It’s his family, Neville. I mean, you know what they are, don’t you?” She slowed to match his pace, walking each of his strides.

“I know.”

“Raised in that family… I mean even if you’re right and he is different - even if he happens to be a good person deep, deep, _deep,_ down - raised in a family like that, you don’t have a choice. You grow up to be the same person your parents were and all their parents were before them. You don’t get a choice.”

Neville didn’t look at her.

“Do you know what I mean? It’s pureblood… high society… stuff. You know, don’t you?”

Yes, he knew.

“So what - you want me to just stop talking to him?”

Her eyes were glued to the floor so that her red eyelashes brushed against her freckled pink skin.

“I never said that.” 

Ginny walked until the path careened down to the frozen water and tapped the ice with her shoe, before taking a few shaky steps out onto the lake. 

“Be careful!”

“Okay, mum,” She laughed and stomped on the ice. Neville was going to have a heart attack. Cracks formed before breaking up and revealing black water. She used her boot to widen the hole to her liking before carefully walking back to shore, where Neville was instinctively gripping a tree branch with white hands.

She stooped down and picked up a handful of pebbles from the ground, placing a few in Neville’s palm. Then, she swung her arm and threw the pebble in an arc that fell right into the hole in the ice, breaking through the water with a soft “plop”.

She looked to Neville, raising her eyebrows and urging him on. He tried to throw one of the pebbles she had given him underhanded, but it missed and skidded across the ice. He tried again with a second one, sliding it the last half of the stretch into the hole.

“That’s cheating,” She said, but grinned anyway. “My brothers and I play this game every Christmas. At the pond that freezes over near our house.” She spoke as she kept throwing rocks into the water, never missing a single one, “I usually win, but my brothers cheat a lot too. Make up a lot of new rules while they’re at it too.”

Neville could imagine that, all the Weasleys outside in the snow, throwing rocks, shouting over each other. In that moment, there was nothing more he wanted in his life than to be a part of that. To have a brother or sister, to have someone to share everything with. Ginny had six brothers. God, how he envied her. How could you feel alone with that many people in one house?

“When I was five years old, we were playing around the pond. I had gone out to make a hole farther out.” She threw a stone. “I fell right through the ice.”

She must’ve noticed how pale his face blanched and added hurriedly, “I was okay obviously. Bill grabbed me out only about a minute I’d been under.” 

“But I’ll never forget falling into the water. I couldn’t move like… I don’t think I’ve ever been able to describe it. I couldn’t breathe. It was like the whole world just stopped for a second.” She threw another rock, “But I keep hoping sometimes that it’ll happen to me again, y’know? Like I just want to see if I could get out properly this time. On my own.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. Instead, throwing another rock, and missing.

“How are you even able to talk to him without everyone noticing?”

The Room of Requirement. That was a part of the promise too. A secret. That world they had created together. He wanted to at least keep some part of it just to them. Draco had held up his end of the promise for this long, Neville wanted to keep up his end as well.

“Not going to tell me?” Ginny said, “That’s fine. I get it.” She threw another rock, not even aiming for the hole anymore, but just to see how far it would go. It passed the horizon and they could just hear the faint scrape against ice far off. “I don’t mind if you want to keep some things private.”

“But Neville, please know you can talk to me about this.” She was facing him now, “We’re friends. Friends tell each other these things. Okay?”

Before the Yule Ball, he would have never thought Ginny would consider them friends. Hell, before she had said it aloud he would have never considered it. These past three years he had known her, he had never _really_ talked to her. Definitely not like this. And he definitely wouldn’t have imagined out of anyone that he’d be telling her about _this._

“Ginny, I - ” He caught his breath, “Last night. When me and Draco left… We…”

She was waiting for him patiently to finish. Never urging him. How horrible would it be if he ruined this by telling her... If she looked at him differently now, forgetting all about the kindness she showed him. Forgot all about being friends. 

“Yes?”

“I just walked him back to the dungeons… That’s all.”

“Oh.” She said, nodding. She had been expecting him to say something different.

“Ginny?”

“Yeah?”

“Please,” He strained his voice,” Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

She gave him a firm smile and nodded, “No one’d believe me anyway.”

Neville waited every day in the Room of Requirement for Draco. Every day after classes, he walked up the flights of stairs and stayed in that room until the sun fell back over the hills and Neville was left alone in the dark. And Draco still never showed up. 

Usually, if there were lapses in their meetings, they only lasted two, maybe three days. But it had been several weeks now. Neville had never touched the velvet suit jacket where it lay upon the back of one of the couches, collecting dust. The pearly white bow tie, however, he held onto. It became a habit now, wrapping the silky stretch of cloth around his hand and unwrapping it. Wrapping it and unwrapping it. 

He rarely saw Draco in the halls, it was like he was avoiding him now. He kept trying to grab his attention, staring at him from across the house tables or passing him in the corridor. Draco didn’t even dare to look at him. It made Neville want to scream his name in front of everyone. Just to prove he wasn’t crazy. 

At night as he stared up at the curtains surrounding his bed, he dreamed of impossible scenarios where he just walked up to him at breakfast, handing him the bow tie he had stretched out by now, imagining the looks on all the Slytherin’s faces. But everytime he imagined it, they always ended with them all laughing him out of the hall. 

He kept waiting for him in the room. Just hoping he might show up. He kept stretching out the bow tie, wrapping and unwrapping it around his hand.

\--

That night after the ball was the hardest Draco had ever cried in his life. He remembered storming down the secret staircase, trying to run down the steps as fast as he could before breaking down and bawling his eyes out. He knew he must just be overtired from staying up this late. He had just gone through too many emotions in one day. He was just all worked up. But he didn’t hold it in anymore. It felt like he was pouring out and if he wasn’t careful, there wouldn’t be anything left of him. He could hear his own sobs echoing throughout the tower, quiet and pitiful. He could hear his father berating him inside his own head. Ever since he was a little kid, he hadn’t been allowed to cry. 

“ _It’s a sign of weakness, Draco. You’re much too old for this nonsense.”_

But he didn’t care. His father wasn’t here. No one was here. He would cry for as long as he felt like it, as long as his own dignity would allow him. 

Some time in the night, he just couldn’t stand it anymore. He felt empty and hollow inside. It almost felt nice. It almost made him forget why he’d been crying. And that was well enough to help him down the steps and down to the dungeons. His dorm was surprisingly empty, but it only made it easier as he crawled into his bed, silent tears flowing out of him, staining his pillow, floating him into unconsciousness. 

It was hard to get out of bed on time for breakfast after that. He tried some days, but most mornings he just lay in bed, listening to his roommates get ready as he pretended to still be sleeping. He’d wait till they had all already gone out before getting ready and stalking off, only grabbing a bit of toast or a muffin to keep him occupied before he set off to waste another day of his winter vacation.

Once the term started again, he avoided Neville as best he could. It hurt a little too much to even look at him. Draco knew he ruined everything they had, and he didn’t want to be reminded of the mess he had made. The one person in the world who he thought he could be himself, who he thought he could be honest to, who may have been the only person to understand him for who he was, _what_ he was - and Draco just had to go and ruin it because what? Because he had been selfish and greedy and weak and because apparently getting to hold him close and slow dance wasn’t enough. Occupying the same space as him just wasn’t enough, was it? He just _had_ to go and kiss the boy and now it was over. 

Draco felt sick most days. Anytime he remembered that night (which was often, as he kept repeating those tiny moments over and over again in his mind just to torment himself, it felt like), a wave of nausea flushed over him and he’d have to make up some excuse and rush outside to feel the cold air biting through him. He just wanted to disappear. 

Thankfully, with their new Durmstrang friends and all the detentions they owed, his friends left him alone nowadays. But he no longer had somewhere to go. He tried hiding out in the library for awhile, but the quiet became deafening and he could hardly stand it. It just gave his mind too much space to think as loud as it wanted to. And he’d had about as much of that as he could stand.

So now he just walked around the castle and grounds, going nowhere in particular. He even picked up his old jogging route he used to do for Quidditch. He was glad the games had been canceled this year for the tournament, but now that he really had nothing to do, he almost missed it. Some days he ran, just to feel his breathing and the wind playing in his hair. And the running gave him stretches of time where he didn’t have to think about anything but the snow crunching beneath his shoes and the air flowing through his chest. 

It’s when he stopped to rest that it all became hell. He’d think about Neville. How much he missed him. It hadn’t even been a month and yet every day seemed to drag on and on. Some days he’d jog far out near the woods where no one would notice him and he’d sit right down in the snow and freeze, half hoping he’d fall asleep and be buried in the cold. 

On one particularly grey day, snow falling down from the sky in sheets, the rest of the school had gone down to Hogsmeade for a visit. As all his friends had been banned from the Hogsmeade visits this year and were instead scrubbing out cauldrons for Snape, Draco saw no reason to go down to the village all by himself. Instead, he wandered around the perimeter of the castle and just as he was passing the greenhouse, he heard a voice calling out his name. 

It was Neville.

He’d heard his voice a million times in his daydreams, he almost didn’t believe it was real until he turned around and saw him, standing in the door frame of one of the greenhouses. 

Neville walked out to meet him. He stood for a moment, waiting for Draco to say something and when it was obvious he’d be waiting forever, he broke the silence, “I… I haven’t seen you around lately.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Neville nodded, eyes downcast.

Draco had spent weeks imagining this moment and now all he wanted to do was escape, “Well I should probably-”

“D’you want to help me water the plants?” Neville pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

Draco looked between him and the greenhouse.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me in there, y’know. Sprout takes her nap around this time. And it’s not like the greenhouses are an especially popular place anyway…” He sort of mumbled the last part as an afterthought.

Draco looked around him. It was just the two of them in the snow.

“C’mon before we both freeze our arses off.” Neville was smiling, already turning to go back inside and Draco couldn’t help but follow him.

The inside of the greenhouse was warm and humid and Draco had to shed his outer layer, hanging it up on one of the coat racks, alongside what he recognized as Neville’s jacket. He watched Neville pick up one of the watering cans. 

“There’s one over there if you’d like to help,” He pointed to a smaller yellow one on the table near the door. 

Draco picked it up, “Aren’t there spells to do this?”

“Sprout says we don’t learn that one till sixth year. Besides, isn’t it nicer this way?” He noticed Draco had rolled up his sleeves and was looking a bit lost at all the pots, “Oh, um so all the smaller plants along that table back there can be given just a little bit. Everything else kind of has their own… sort of special amount, so I can do the rest.”

As Draco began pouring out water, he had to agree, it was rather nice. “So this is how you spend your days off?”

“I mean I used to be in here all the time before we… before we started hanging out and all.” The soft bubbling of a fountain seemed to be the only sound he could hear.

Neville tried to break the silence, “And you… why aren’t you down at the village with everyone else?”

“No point really when all my friends are banned.”

“Oh,” He said, “Right.”

They watered the rest of the plants in silence, but it was calming. Draco had only ever been in the greenhouses for his weekly herbology classes and he never knew how peaceful it could be outside of class. When he’d finished the plants he was told to water, he clutched uneasily at the tin handle of the watering can, unsure of what he should do, and really ended up just watching Neville take care of the plants. Some were even reaching up to him, petting his hands with their leaves, or if they could reach, they would slip a vine through the knots of his soft curly hair, tousling it even further. Neville seemed to take kindly to their friendly gestures of affection, almost cooing at them as one would to a cat or owl - or toad even, he supposed. One of the hanging plants had even swooped down a vine to tickle the side of his neck and Neville dissolved into laughter as he was trying to water it.

“Agh! Stop it! Draco, Help! Ahaha-!” He was shouting in a high pitched voice and giggling all the way, but Draco swooped in, removing the ivy from him, gently but firmly swatting it away when it tried again to creep around him. 

When Neville caught his breath and calmed down, he thanked him, “These ones are related to Alihotsy trees - the hyena trees. They tend to do this whenever they think they can. Though I’ve told them not to plenty enough times already!” He turned and scolded the hanging plant as if it was a child.

“You treat them like they’re…. Like they’re almost people.” Draco tried to stifle the fondness in his voice.

“Well they sort of are… I mean, to _me,_ at least.” He was curling one of the stems around his finger and every time he pulled his hand away, the plant would curl around his pinky again. “They all have their own personality and means of communication and… I don’t know they just seem… very real to me.”

Draco tried to place his hand near the friendlier plant and it very cautiously sent a stem to twist around his finger. It was weird and it tickled, like holding a bug to crawl around in your palm, but it was almost cute as well, in a way. He could understand what Neville meant. They were alive.

“D’you want to see the one I used to make you that healing salve last year?”

Draco nodded. He wasn’t sure if he really cared what it looked like - he had never thought about it before. He hardly even believed the things in that gel had _ever_ been alive. But there was a spark of excitement in Neville’s eyes, and he couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

He followed him to a corner of the room where a healthy, branched plant sat up on a stool, “It doesn’t move much at all really anymore, mostly just shivers and shakes its leaves every so often. It isn’t growing anything right now either since it’s winter… But I’m really proud of it honestly… if you couldn’t tell.” He laughed to himself, a little embarrassed.

Draco looked him square in the eye, “That’s incredible, Neville, really. You’re… really talented at this sort of thing.”

Neville’s whole face went red, avoiding Draco’s eyes, but he was grinning, “Thanks. That… that really means a lot.”

“Have you thought about, y’know, becoming a herbologist when you grow up?”

His eyes went wide, “Huh? Oh, uh… no, actually.” Neville was biting his cheek, “It’s always just been a sort of hobby of mine, I guess. I never… My gran doesn’t really… I don’t think she sees that as a real job.”

“What do you want to be then?”

“I had always just… assumed I’d try to be an auror.” He kept his eyes on the barren branches of the shrivelfig, “Follow my parents footsteps. Or at least try. I know my gran doesn’t think I can do it… but at the same time, it’s the one thing I can do to keep her from being disappointed in me.”

Draco tried to catch his line of sight, “You shouldn’t devote your life to something if you’re only doing it to please your grandmother.”

Neville turned to him, “What do _you_ want to be when you grow up?”

“I don’t really have to be anything when I grow up. I’m sort of… rich, you know.”

“Oh,” He looked embarrassed, “Right. I forgot.”

“But still, if you could be anything, what would you want to be?” Neville persisted.

Draco realized he’d never thought seriously about that question before in his whole life. It had never really been brought up. His mother would tell him he’d be a prince and a knight and the greatest wizard in history. His father told him he’d be a respectable man when he grew up. That he’d marry a nice respectable woman and with any luck, he’d continue the family bloodline with children of his own. And he’d live in the manor he grew up in and the cycle would continue happily ever after. He didn’t think he’d have to _be_ anything other than a Malfoy.

“It’s okay if you don’t know yet,” Neville brought him out of his thoughts. “It’s all still a long ways off. Besides, you’ve nothing to worry about. You’re already plenty talented. You could be anything…”

“Thanks,” Draco breathed out.

Neville was staring at him now, Draco could tell, but he didn’t dare look back at him. He tried to seem more interested in the coloration of a leaf he was holding, inadvertently holding his breath.

“Draco, about that night-” Neville had stepped just a little closer into his space and instinctively Draco stepped back.

Neville’s face had lost its color. He swallowed hard and mumbled, looking away, “Sorry.” 

He tried to continue, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Can we just not talk about it?” Draco cut him off, voice low, “Please?”

Neville opened his mouth to speak again, and closed it, rubbing his neck. He was blinking hard, but Draco tried not to look too closely.

“Oh, um,” Neville was rummaging in his pocket, “You uh… forgot this, by the way-” He pulled out the white silk bow tie Draco had worn to the ball and placed it in his hand. The realization that he had been keeping this around with him, possibly every day, struck a chord with him. He shoved the strip of cloth in his own pocket.

“I should… probably go.” Draco gave a performative glance at his watch, “They’ll all be coming back from the village before long and…”

“Will you come back to the seventh floor sometime soon?” Neville said hastily, “I hate being alone in there.”

Draco said nothing.

“And I’ve… I’ve really missed you.”

At Neville’s words, Draco’s heart lurched and sprang into his throat. He was sure his entire face must be on fire. He swallowed, “Okay.”

He turned on his heel and marched quickly out of the greenhouse, his ears not even registering Neville’s goodbye. 

It was as if someone else was driving himself forward, working his legs for him. As soon as he was far enough out of eyesight and was sure no one else was nearby, he knelt down onto the ground, scooped snow into his shaking hands, and buried his face in the cold, feeling it already melting off his skin, becoming water that dripped down his face. 

Why he had let this person come into his life and affect him in this way, he didn’t know.

\--

“He finally spoke to you?” Ginny sat down next to him in front of the fireplace, crossing her legs. She had grabbed Crookshanks, placing him carefully in her lap.

He blinked away the bright spots burning in his eyes from staring at the fire and turned to her, looking around to make sure there was no one else in the common room. It wasn’t that late at night, but everyone seemed more tired than usual as the term had started again and they were left alone while the rest of the tower was asleep.

“How’d you know?”

She began playing around with the cat’s fluffy tail, twirling it around on her finger, smiling when Crookshanks somewhat annoyedly flicked his tail away from her, “Just a guess.”

It was true he’d gone half crazy only after a few weeks of being away from Draco, which in turn only made him talk more with Ginny. Thankfully, most of the time she would be the one doing all the talking, venting about all the drama was occurring in her third year class. He couldn’t help but tune out most of the time, since he couldn’t pin a face to half the names she mentioned. He did try to listen as best he could when she would talk about Harry, though. Mostly, they were just tiny moments of frustration where he ignored her accidentally or, even worse in her eyes, when he unintentionally flirted with her. She laughed it off most of the time, but she seemed to enjoy having someone to talk to about it with. Having a crush on Harry wasn’t uncommon among students, but it was doubly embarrassing for Ginny, as he was her older brother’s best friend and had to be around him constantly. 

No matter what she talked about, though, he enjoyed the sound of her voice. It just melted any feelings of worry away.

“What was he so angry about, anyway?” She had asked this same question several times in the past weeks, but he had always found some way to avoid answering her.

“He’s just been… busy.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s possible.”

She gave him a pointed look, made less serious with a cat purring in her lap. 

“Things are back to normal now, anyway, and that’s all that matters.”

She raised her hands in defeat, “Whatever you say.” She scooped Crookshanks up into her arms like a baby, mumbling a goodnight, and disappeared up the stairs to the girls’ rooms.

He watched her go over his shoulder before turning back to the fire, whispering and wavering, biting at the blackened logs. 

Neville waited for him the next day in the Room of Requirement. He kept pacing, back and forth along the sun bleached rugs - which led to him wandering around through the labyrinth of junk piles. Forgotten statues and chair forts and piles of stray robes and so so _so_ many books, all creating winding paths. He’d never really wondered what it was all doing here. Had to be some sort of lost and found, he supposed. Although, if this place was so difficult to get into, the room itself was lost, in a way - which would really make it harder to get these items back to their owners. 

_Maybe they were never meant to be found_ , he thought to himself and a chill ran down his spine.

Eventually, down a darkened section between crates and overladen bookshelves, he found himself in front of a tall, menacing looking cabinet, jutting sharply upwards towards the ceiling. In shape, it almost resembled some sort of crystal, but it was made of a stained grey wood. 

He reached a hand out to one of the iron handles and-

“ _Don’t!”_

Neville jumped in his skin, turning sharply around.

Draco was there, the color drained from his face, “Don’t go near that thing.”

He turned back to the cabinet, confused. It was a scary old thing, but it hadn’t growled at him or anything yet, “What? This?”

“It’s dangerous I’ve… I’ve seen one like it before…”

“There’s _more_? Where?”

Draco was fidgeting with the sleeve of his robe, “Just… Promise me you won’t go near it… please?” 

If it meant Draco would feel safer, he’d do anything. “Sure… ”

An awkward moment passed before Neville spoke up again, “Oh, you forgot something else here last time.” He walked past him and out towards the couch. There on the back lay Draco’s dress robe, black and velvet, covered in a thin layer of dust. It had only been a few weeks, but the room seemed to have enough dust to spare. 

Draco picked it up by the shoulders, measuring it up a moment before walking over to one of the mountains of junk and throwing it as hard as he could to reach the top.

“What?! What’d you do that for?” Neville’s voice cracked.

When Draco turned back to face him, he simply shrugged, “It’s not like I can’t afford a new one.” 

Neville opened and closed his mouth before giving up. 

“I have something else for you, actually,” Neville remembered. Off towards one of the smaller bookshelves laid on a side table was a large hardback book. He brought it back and placed it in Draco’s hands, who grazed his fingers along its rough buckram cover, water stained and ripping off at the edges. He studied the spine glazed in a faded crimson where it was inscribed in golden ink:

_Complete Works_

_William Shakespeare_

_Classics Club_

Neville watched intently as he opened it, the front cover barely hanging onto the ghostly thin pages, “I found it while I was digging around last week… when it was just me in here. I figured since you like to read… And I never got to say thank you for the brooch… Thank you for that by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” He was already absent-mindedly flipping through the pages, “Someone’s underlined some verses in here.”

“Oh… sorry-”

“No, that makes it better,” Draco gave a sly smile, “Thanks for finding this for me.”

January bled into February, and they had to spend their study sessions in awkward silence as the gramophone still lay crashed on the ground, painfully ignored. They listened only to the occasional sounds of quills against parchment and textbook pages being turned. Though things were slowly going back to normal between them, there was still something unspoken that hung around in the room that weighed down on Neville. 

It was hard to even breathe near him. Draco would get so finicky at even the smallest things. When he tried to sit near him, Draco made sure there was still distance kept between them. Even when Draco was trying to help him master wand movements for Charms, he never dared to touch his skin, always just an inch away, like they were repelling magnets. And every time Neville went to move his hand near his to point something out in his work, Draco would pull away, like Neville was made of fire. Neville couldn’t have been imagining it. They used to be so close. Now it felt like they were miles apart.

One day, as Draco pulled away from him, Neville couldn’t pretend anymore.

“Have I… Have I offended you or something?” Neville didn’t stop the words from tumbling from his mouth.

“What… ?” Draco muttered, oblivious.

“Every time I get near you, you flinch away and I just… Have I done something wrong?”

For a second, shock flashed across Draco’s face before melting into stiff discomfort, “No it’s not…” He sighed, “It’s not your fault.”

“Okay, but I’m not blind,” Neville strained. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t flinch every time-“

“ _What’s wrong_.”

His voice pitched up, “Do we really have to talk about it?” 

“We do if you’re going to keep acting like I’m about to hit you or something.”

Draco gave a cold glare.

Neville deflated, but didn’t give up. He tried to speak lower, softer, “What’s wrong, Draco? I just want to help.”

A moment passed, a thousand thoughts in a second. Maybe it was wrong of him to ask. He shouldn’t have asked. It was none of his business if Draco wanted to keep his personal space personal. He understood, he really did. But not after everything between them.

“It’s … that night… when we danced.” Neville hadn’t even expected him to answer. Draco was biting the inside of his cheek. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

“I don’t understand…?”

Draco’s face was red with anger and embarrassment, “I kissed you. And you obviously didn’t want me to.” He looked away, “Which is fine! I get it! I don’t care! Whatever! We don’t have to talk about it! But you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t entirely feel comfortable being so close to you again.”

“I… It wasn’t like that…”

“You looked at me like I was disgusting.”

“Draco, I-“

“Really, I don’t care. I get it. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“But-”

“It’s fine-”

“ _Will you please listen to me!_ ” Neville fumed, raising his voice.

That shut Draco up. He couldn’t remember the last time he shouted like that… especially to him.

“I… I was scared. I had never… And you’re… And I’m… I just never thought…”

Draco let him ramble on in his disjointed thoughts. He knew he wasn’t making any sense. But he figured if anyone might understand, he would.

“I’m sorry… Draco. I was just… I wasn’t ready. I’m sorry.”

Draco nodded, mumbling almost to himself, “And I bet you’ve gone on and told the Weasley girl everything about it anyway haven’t you.”

Neville felt his stomach drop and he felt a wave of exasperation flood over him, _“Her name is Ginny_. And no. I haven’t.”

Draco eyed him, “But she saw us.”

“She knows that we’re friends. I made her promise not to tell anyone. We’re safe.”

\--

_Oh._

Draco knew it had been stupid of him to assume. He knew this whole thing was stupid - the fact that he couldn’t handle being so close to him anymore, that he’d been so worried… over what turned out to be nothing. Well, not _nothing,_ but it was a lot less terrifying than what Draco had imagined. 

Neville was just… scared. Just like him.

There was another long silence, Draco stewing in apologies he was too afraid to voice. But again, like he always did, Neville came to his rescue.

“Have you… ever kissed a boy before? Besides me?” It wasn’t accusatory, it was just curiosity.

“No.” Draco said, “Never.”

“Have you ever-” Neville swallowed. “Have you ever had a crush on a guy?”

Draco nodded. 

He didn’t know how this was so easy to talk about now. He’d thought about these things to himself, but never did he ever expect to give them any voice. Never wanted to anyway. If any of his friends knew… If his _parents_ ever found out… Well there were reasons things like this were never talked about. 

And here with Neville, he told him without a second thought. If there was anyone in the world he could tell, it was him.

“What about girls?” Neville asked.

He shrugged. “Pansy kisses me all the time.”

“But do you-?”

“I don’t think so.”

In truth, he didn’t know. He didn’t really know what any of it meant. He’d only ever dated Pansy, if he really was dating Pansy. They had never really spoken it into existence but Pansy had always treated him like her boyfriend and Draco had never done anything to make her think otherwise. But… did he think of her the same way? Had he ever seriously wanted a girlfriend? 

She was nice - sometimes. And she cured a lot of the loneliness that he couldn’t help but feel. His other friends, Crabbe, Goyle, Theodore, Blaise… they were all well enough. But sometimes they just felt so empty. Pansy at least felt like a real person.

“And you?” Draco asked, “Do you like… guys?”

Neville raised his brows and blinked for a moment. There was that curl in his lip, a shrug and a hesitant nod. 

A tidal wave of relief flooded over him. “We’re just the same then.”

Neville blinked harder, looking away again, but smiling at the ground. Draco couldn’t help but stare. There was nothing more he wanted to do than to pull him close and kiss every freckle on his cheek. He didn’t move of course, only to get their attention back on the potions book. But he kept thinking it at the back of his mind. He wanted to try again.

\--

Neville felt lighter than air as Winter began to melt away and greenery sprouted across the valley. Spring was going to come early this year, it seemed. Every morning, he was the first to wake up. His appetite was never better and breakfast didn’t feel so much like a chore anymore. He was paying attention in class and for once, it was like he really understood what his professors were saying. He still couldn’t find the courage in him to raise his hand to answer questions, but he found he started to actually know the answer before it was even said. He spent more time with Ginny; walking each other to their classes and throwing rocks in the lake, which had finally cracked and broken up into tiny continents, melting in the glowing rays of sunlight. After she had her daily rant about Harry, he even felt comfortable talking about Draco. Nothing serious or complicated, but just of the things they did together and how much the Slytherin was hiding from the rest of the world. He told her about his piano playing, the way he doodled along the sides of his parchment, how when you took him away from everyone else he could be so quiet and awkward. She barely even believed him. 

He never spoke about the dancing. He didn’t talk about what had happened the night of the Yule Ball. He didn’t tell her the way he made him feel. 

He knew she probably wouldn’t care either way - that she would accept him for whatever he was. He knew that. He knew it. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.

Just being able to say his name to someone else was enough for him. 

It took time, but the space between them soon faded and things fell back into place. Neville could laugh easy around Draco. They would stay out late in the room just to keep talking and laughing together, it seemed too terrible to have to wait till the next evening to meet again. 

Some days, Neville was able to convince Draco to read the book of Shakespeare aloud to him (though it really didn’t take much convincing to get him to do it). He read as Macbeth, grieving the death of his wife; he read as the fairy queen, falling in love with a donkey; he read as Mercutio, drawing curses with his dying breath. He even persuaded Neville to play as Laertes in his duel against Hamlet, using umbrellas as swords. Neville had trouble with the Old English, stuttering and mixing up the words, but Draco never embarrassed him by correcting him, only kept on and used funny voices for the other characters, acting out in melodrama as each began to die. Neville would watch him carry on all day like this sometimes, enraptured in his one man show. Though Draco would take every opportunity to try to get Neville to read a small part here or there, promising he wouldn’t have to speak too much if he didn’t want to. He was usually able to cajole him into taking the extra parts - but it didn’t matter either way, Neville always ended up forgetting to read his lines as he was always too absorbed in Draco’s performance. 

In his free time, Neville tried to help Ginny with her own homework. Since he had already taken her classes just last year, it wasn’t too hard, but it frightened him how much he already forgot. However, some days he didn’t think the reason she dragged him into the library was to help her study at all. Harry, he noticed, was also spending plenty of time there as well, scouring books and pages in a fervor, turning the pages louder than anyone else in the room, loud enough for Madam Pince to put a finger up to her lips and shush him. And Ginny always chose a seat that had him within eyeshot. She feigned innocence when he brought this up in a whisper.

“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about… but move your head just a little bit, you’re in the way.”

Neville had purposely sat in a chair around the table in front of her to block her view, “I have other places to be if I’m only here to take suspicion off of you stalking him.”

“I’m not _stalking_ him,” Ginny turned bright red, “Fred and George won’t stop bothering me to test out their new inventions every time I walk into the common room… I came here for a little peace and quiet… He just happens to be here and he just happens to sit within viewing distance where I sit.”

“If you keep looking at him like that he’s going to notice something’s up.”

She stifled a laugh, “Oh please, Harry wouldn’t notice a Fire Salamander even if his house had burned down. He can’t even see me.”

Neville rolled his eyes and gave up, getting up and walking off to search the bookshelves. It was a pastime of his he greatly enjoyed, just reading the titles and authors, staring at the spines. It was so weird to him how entire worlds could fit inside such small boxes. He wondered how many of these books Draco had read or touched. He wondered if he would ever read any of them aloud to him if he asked. 

When he got to the herbology section marked by tiny mushrooms that had begun to sprout from the shelves, he figured he may as well take the few volumes he hadn’t looked through yet. There was an old copy of a muggle book titled _Success with House Plants_ that he figured could translate even to magical plants; _Flesh-Eating Trees of the World_ , a sixth year level book; and _Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and Their Properties_ , an identical to the one given to him by Professor Moody. He figured since he hadn’t brought it with him to the library, he could just read this one while he sat with Ginny.

But just as he started to carry them back to their table, a gruff voice called him out, “Longbottom! Help Potter with his books!” He hadn’t even noticed the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher speaking in a hush tone with Harry, until he was shuffling away on his wooden leg, echoed by his staff pounding against the carpeted flooring. 

Neville set down his own stack of books besides Harry’s piles scattered across the table. Harry gave him an apologetic but firm smile out of the corner of his mouth, and Neville returned it likewise. He looked back to see Ginny hiding behind her textbook, only her eyes watching them from the top of the page. She moved her eyebrows like she wanted him to speak to him. 

“So Harry … er… d’you know what the next task will be?” Since the last time Harry had opened the egg inside their shared dorm - as he had done ritually every time he entered, bleeding out the rest of his roommates' ears - Neville had assumed that the egg must have something to do with the cruciatus curse. It would make sense, knowing that their teacher had just taught them thoroughly on the subject. Neville had even had a nightmare or two involving Harry, screaming in a glass jar under Moody’s watchful eye - probably the reason he sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, soaking wet and shaking. He knew it was improbable they would just resort to torturing a bunch of underage wizards for their tournament, but Neville really wouldn’t put it past the bastards. Sometimes the castle still felt completely medieval in its teachings. Either way, he was sure if anyone was going to be under the effects of the curse, he’d be the first one to faint in the crowd. 

“The lake. Mermaids. I’ll have an hour to look for… something stolen I guess.” Harry was back to scanning the lines of text in front of him, biting his knuckle.

“Oh.”

A wave of relief washed over him. At least that was one less thing for him to worry about. One less nightmare that could possibly become real.

“Have you figured out how to hold your breath for that long?”

“I’m about fifty-nine minutes short.

“Nearly there.”

“Hermione’s had me stuck in here looking for water breathing spells…” He closed the thick book he’d been flipping through with a resounding _thump_ . “I’ve checked nearly every single book they have. I’ve checked the restricted section _twice_. But so far I’ve gotten nothing.”

It was almost like a lightbulb went off in his head. “Harry, I think I know how to help.”

“He needs to breathe underwater right? Well, gillyweed is an herb that’ll do exactly that for an hour. It’s perfect!”

Draco was sitting on the couch with a perplexed face, “That’s great but where the hell are we going to find gillyweed?”

“That’s where you come in.”

“Excuse me?”

“Snape has a private storage of potions ingredients, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but-”

“Well then you’ll just sneak in there and take the gillyweed and bring it back to me and I’ll hand it over to Harry before the tournament tomorrow.”

“Yes Neville, that sounds perfect except for the fact that Snape keeps his storage locked. I’m not even sure a key would get me in, and there’s certainly some magical boundaries set on it to keep idiots like us out.”

Neville hadn’t thought of that. He scratched his brow, “Huh.”

“Don’t take this as me not wanting to help just because it’s Potter, of course. I mean he _is_ a prick, but I would have helped if I could-”

“ _You won’t need a key because you won’t sneak in_ ,” Neville had a revelation.

“Snape’s not just going to _give_ me the gillyweed. I may be his favorite but-”

“You’ll just go in asking for something else. Just say it’s for a personal project, something you’re experimenting on. He’ll be so pleased someone else even cares about potions, he’ll open the storage and while he turns his back getting whatever else for you, you’ll just grab the herb and get out!”

“You’ve been hanging around me too much. You’re starting to sound like me.”

Neville couldn’t help a laugh.

“Okay, but what if it isn’t within reach? What if I can’t find it in time before he turns around? There’s way more factors in this to account for.”

Neville chewed his lip. Again he had to think a moment, “I’ll come by too. I’ll ask to speak to him and stall him outside the storage room until you can find it.”

Draco was dumbfounded, “You? Talking to Snape? Are you sure you’re not going to piss your pants? You know what, that might actually be a perfect way to stall him-”

“I can do it.” He tried to sound as brave as he could, but even the dawning realization of trying to have an actual conversation with that man began to quicken his breath and sweat to form in his palms. 

“Neville… you don’t have to do this. No one’s making you.”

“If we don’t get the gillyweed before tomorrow, Harry’ll drown.”

“I’m sure the boy who lived has a back up plan and besides - if worst comes to worst he’ll just back out and disqualify.” He placed his hand on Neville’s shoulder, “You _really_ don’t have to face your biggest fear just to help Potter.”

Neville took a deep breath, “I want to. Besides, you’ll be there. He won’t seem as scary.”

Somewhere in the back of his brain he realized that a few years ago the only thing scarier than Snape was Snape _and_ Draco. But now, knowing Draco would be there too, he felt like he might be able to do anything.

They ran through their plan a few times, working out the details and figuring out what to do if something went wrong. When they felt prepared enough, they went down separately for dinner, watching the potions professor eat from his place at the staff table. When he finished, walking out of the hall, Draco waited a minute before trailing after him, and Neville waited another minute after him to follow. 

When Neville made it to the dungeons, he could just make out Draco and Snape’s voices echoing through the corridor, and he hid behind an armoured statue.

“May I ask _why_ you would need Hellebore syrup, a highly poisonous substance, Draco, outside of our class hours?” 

“Well you see, sir... can I trust you with something?” The acting practice Draco had been doing must have really paid off, “I’ve been having these terrible nightmares. Horrible, like, screaming awake dreams. I was hoping that maybe I could try brewing a Draught of Peace to get some rest tonight, for once.”

“Not only is that a fifth year potion that could end very badly in the hands of even one of my brightest fourth years, it is also unnecessary. I carry a stash of it just for these situations.”

Neville’s heart dropped. Why hadn’t they thought of that. If Snape kept this potion in his personal quarters or office, then this all had been for nothing. 

“Sir, really, I can make one for myself. I’ve really been eager to try it actually. I won’t even test it until I check it with you first I-”

“Nonsense. I don’t have the time. Come along.”

Neville peeked around the statue and a rush of relief passed over him as he realized Snape _was_ opening the door to his personal storage room.

“It’s just in here if you’ll wait a moment.” But Draco followed him inside, and that was Neville’s cue to catch Snape’s attention. 

He swallowed a lump in his throat and hoped his mouth wasn’t too dry to speak as he stepped right outside the door of the storage room, which ended up being much larger than he had anticipated, “Uh… P-Professor Snape.”

The potions master had just opened a cabinet, showing off dozens of bottles, labels peeling off and revealing liquids in bright and muddy colors. He turned around and when he saw Neville, one of his eyebrows shot straight up, “ _Longbottom_?” Neville hated how he enunciated everything so terribly slow. It was creepy as hell.

Neville looked over to Draco who gave him a reassuring look and a motion to _get on with it_. He took another deep breath, “Professor may I talk to you… privately? I’m sorry it’ll take only a moment but it’s about my grades, sir.”

Snape was already advancing on him and Neville felt like he might actually pass out. The professor stopped in the doorway, placing his hands on the frame in an attempt to block his view of the room, “What is it.”

“It’s- It’s… I…” Neville peeked over his shoulder to see that Draco was already searching high and low through the shelves and cabinets, careful not to make a sound.

“Speak up and don’t stutter,” Snape snapped, “I refuse to listen if you don’t even know how to speak.”

“Sir… I wanted to know if my grade has been improving.” He willed his pulse to slow down, clenching his fists so they wouldn’t shake. He couldn’t remember ever saying more than a few words to Snape. He’d always been terrified into silence. It was strange even to imagine that he could have a conversation with this man. “I’ve been scoring better on my quizzes and assignments and-”

“You have… improved to a level average enough to pass you through the year. Nothing to celebrate. I’m sure your grandmother will be pleased to know she will no longer have to disown you.” Neville could see that Draco was still frantically looking around.

“Could I- Could I ask you something else?”

“Make it quick. I don’t have all night and I was just in the middle of speaking to another student before you so rudely interrupted.”

“I was wondering if there was any chance or possibility that I might be able to advance to the N.E.W.T. level potions class in- in the future.” No, Neville had never even considered that possibility, even with his improving grade. He was only hoping to pass these next few years until he didn’t have to take potions anymore. But he still needed to stall.

Snape seemed amused, “Neville Longbottom, _you_ wish to take _my_ N.E.W.T. level class? A class even so-called masters of the art of potion making would struggle to complete. A class that could very easily lead to your _death_ if you so much as made the wrong move around your cauldron.” Snape left no regard for personal space, the smell of his breath nearly making Neville gag. “I would never endanger the lives of students who were actually _serious_ about honing their craft by allowing you into my class.”

He stood up straight, a tall black shadow. “I have no time for joking. Now run along.” He was just about to turn his back on him to see Draco rifling around a storage drawer, when Neville panicked, grabbed the professor’s arm, and pulled him to the side away from the door.

“ _Mr. Longbottom, have you lost what very little of a mind you possess?!”_ Neville was still grabbing onto Snape’s forearm, too shocked he had even done so to let go.

“Uhhh…” Neville’s mind went into full panic mode, “Sir, I just er… wanted to speak to you in private and er… apologize for all the cauldrons and equipment I’ve accidentally melted in the past and-”

“Your apology means very little to me, now _get your filthy hands off me this instant or I shall-”_ Snape’s snarling voice was cut off as the sound of glass shattering came from the storage room. 

Neville felt his stomach drop as in his surprise, Snape was able to withdraw his hand from his grasp, seething with anger. In a flurry of black robes, he turned the corner back into the storage room. Neville, with his heart lurching out of his throat, moved to peer through the doorway.

Draco was standing by the potions cabinet, glass shards scattered in a puddle of shimmering liquid at his feet. “Oops.”

But Snape regarded him as a child having accidentally upturned a bowl across the kitchen floor. He sighed and walked in strides towards him, reaching the top shelf and handing him a bottle, the same color as the smashed liquid on the floor. He already had his wand out, the mess disappearing with a wave. Snape gave him one final look and it seemed Draco took that at his signal to leave.

“Sorry Professor… Won’t happen again. See you in class.”

Neville hid back out of sight away from the door, moving to a nearby statue and waiting as Draco exited the storage room. As he strode past the statue, he gave a subtle wink and a gesture for Neville to follow. Once they made it to the secret staircase, Draco couldn’t help pumping his fistful of potion into the air in celebration.

Neville was perplexed, “The potion that smashed...? Weren’t you still looking for the gillyweed?”

He rolled his eyes, “I did that on purpose of course. I didn’t want you getting into any trouble… actually I’m surprised he didn’t give you detention.”

“You weren’t worried at all for yourself though, were you?” 

“Course not.”

It was Neville’s turn to roll his eyes, “Have you got the gillyweed then?”

Draco pulled from his pocket a short jar filled with an oozing green substance, holding it up to his face and grinning.

\--

Overnight, the stadium from the first task had been transported to the very edge of the water. Blaise was the only friend of Draco’s that hadn’t gotten banned from watching the tournament and so they picked a seat high up in the corner of the crowd watching the action through silver binoculars. He focused in on two specks against the foggy green of the lawn. Neville was walking Harry down to the shore of the lake where the other champions were waiting - Karkaroff and Madame Maxime obviously disappointed he had shown up at all. 

Draco watched as Neville handed Harry the slimy substance, dropping it into his hands and giving him a “good luck” pat on the back, before joining Dean, Seamus, and Ginny, in the stands below. Neville seemed almost as nervous as Harry did, possibly even more so. As Ludo Bagman counted down, Harry shoved the gillyweed into his mouth, choking nearly when the whistle signaled the start of the task. The crowd roared as each of the champions waded into the lake, diving down into the murky depths.

And then came the waiting. He tried to strike up a conversation with Blaise, but after a while, he switched seats in front of him to talk with another Slytherin girl he knew and Draco was left alone. With no one to talk to, he began people watching through the binoculars. Down by the shore, Dumbledore was having what looked like a rather pleasant conversation with the Beauxbatons Headmistress, even as four children’s lives were in danger at the bottom of the lake. Snape was speaking out of the corner of his mouth to Karkaroff, equally disdainful at being brought out at the crack of dawn to watch the water. Neville was laughing off some of his apprehension with the surrounding Gryffindors and Draco cursed the fact he was too far to hear what he was saying. 

Just a minute over an hour after the whistle had echoed across the lake, Cedric Diggory arrived back on the shore carrying Cho Chang , a bubble of air popping around his face. Minutes later, Viktor Krum broke through the surface with Hermione in his arms, his face transmorphing back from the head of a shark. There were several more tense minutes of silence before Fleur Delacour appeared on the shore, soaking wet and distraught, as she hadn’t brought anyone out from the water. Even from way up in the stands, Draco could hear her pleading with Madame Maxime in French, on the verge of hysterics. A pit formed in his stomach and he didn’t even know why. Was she going to lose someone she loved? He couldn’t even imagine what he would have done in her place. If Neville was buried deep underwater and he couldn’t find him. He wanted to believe he would keep looking, endlessly searching for him. But he knew deep down, he would be terrified. In the end, he knew he was nowhere near as brave as the others who had risked their lives - even Fleur who had at least tried. 

An hour and ten minutes passed and there was still no sign of Harry. Draco watched Neville below, fingers passing anxiously through his hair. He could see Ginny comforting Neville, running her hand down his back. She held onto his hand as he hid his face in his other palm. What Draco wouldn’t give to sit beside him in her place. He could feel his heart lurching from his chest. It was physically painful to see him this way and not be able to do or say anything. He could only wait.

And then out from the depths, three heads appeared from the surface of the lake - Harry, Ron, and a younger, smaller version of Fleur Delacour. Neville jumped to his feet cheering with the rest of the crowd as the latter two opened their eyes, spitting out water. The last three made it to the shore joining the rest in towels and just like that, the second task was over. 

Diggory won first place, as he finished in the least amount of time. But Harry was moved up to second place for “moral fiber”, and Draco was just glad Neville could rest easy. 

While the rest of the Slytherins trudged down to the dungeons, Draco took himself up to the seventh floor, not even expecting Neville to be inside the room. But he was there, scooping him up in an enthusiastic hug, bringing him in close.

“It worked, Draco. _You_ did this!”

“Oh please, it was _your_ idea.”

Neville held him by the shoulders, looking him dead in the eye, “There was no way I could have gotten the gillyweed without you. You’re the reason Harry won.”

“Okay, first of all, he didn’t _win_. He got second place. And you do understand that I’m not exactly rooting for Potter?”

“With the points he’s got now, he’s tied with Cedric. He could actually win this.”

“And I’m to blame?”

Neville punched him in the shoulder, not hard, but not soft either.

“Ow?!” Draco held his arm. They definitely were spending too much time together.

“I’m trying to thank you and you keep making it very difficult.”

“Well don’t thank me, then.”

The next Hogsmeade visit was just a week after the second task, and excitement bubbled inside Draco. He figured they could meet in the Room of Requirement and then go down to the greenhouses like last time. Draco could watch him work - even help, if Neville would let him. He never stopped thinking about the way Neville had treated the plants, so kind and gentle, a calm focused expression falling over his face. Draco didn’t know why, but it made something flutter in his chest. He liked being in the sunlight with him. 

There was the slight terrifying worry that someone would see them - talking as if they were friends. They _were_ friends. There was another feeling, one he was perhaps more afraid of. There was a feeling like he almost _wanted_ everyone to know they were friends. He wanted to be able to help him in the greenhouses without fear. He wanted to walk him to his classes. He wanted to sit beside him during the tournament. He wanted to hold his hand. He knew it was stupid. He knew these things meant nothing. They had the room. They had each other. Wasn’t it enough?

Nevertheless, Draco woke bright and early Saturday, eating a quick breakfast before marching up to the seventh floor. He waited on the couch, reading his Shakespeare book. 

By lunch, there was still no sign of Neville.

 _Maybe he slept in? What did it matter when he wasn’t going down to the village with the rest of them anyway?_

Draco read through Julius Caesar, King Lear, and Henry V, his leg bouncing up and down in anticipation. But still no Neville. 

He wandered around the room, rummaging through piles of clothes and trinkets and books and records and trash. He found his way around to the menacing looking cabinet again. If his memory had been right, this was the Vanishing Cabinet, a duplicate to the one found in Borgin and Burkes. He couldn’t remember how many times his father had taken him along into the shop and how many times he had passed by the cabinet. This one was a bit older looking, more fragile, but he had no doubt they were connected. An emblem of a black beetle engraved into the metal at the center where two handles emerged. The same beetle engraved on the one in Knockturn Alley. His father had given him inklings of what its purpose was when he had asked. All he really knew was “ _Don’t touch, Draco.”_

Draco waited and waited. Moonlight poured through the window. He waited. 

He woke up the next morning, curled up on the velvet couch, still in his clothes from the day before. At some point he managed to pull himself together and wander back down to the dungeons to bathe and change. At breakfast, he didn’t see Neville anywhere along the Gryffindor table. But Ginny was there. And she looked back at him with a sharp eye, biting into her toast. It was a little strange to know she knew about him. He often felt himself catching her look in the hall or on the stairs. It was never really a look of disapproval just… a warning, a challenge, a promise that _if he ever wronged Neville,_ _so help her, he’d pay for it._

And even knowing it was contempt in her eyes, he almost welcomed it? It was another person who recognized some small part of him. Maybe not in the same way that Neville did, but it was a form of being seen. Of understanding and accepting. Well, accepting enough not to convince Neville to stop seeing him. And for that he really did feel gratitude to her.

He had nowhere else to go and so he ended up back in the Room of Requirement. Waiting. He played the piano, but it felt weird not having Neville by his side, feeling his warm breath on his cheek while he sat beside him on the stool, his toothy grin blurred in his peripheral. He tried reading The Tempest aloud, but it felt wrong, his voice growing quieter until he was only mouthing the words, lost on the dust motes that collected in the rays of afternoon sun. Eventually he fell asleep, head on the arm rest of the lounge chair, book laid over his eyes. 

He woke up later to the sound of the door shutting and footsteps coming closer along the stone flooring. There was a funny taste in his mouth and it felt as if the world was stuck. He couldn’t tell if it was the next day or not - a funny feeling he always felt waking from a nap to find that a dark blue evening had fallen. It was one of the reasons he avoided naps if at all possible. 

A shadow fell over him and Draco pushed the book from his face to find himself staring up at Neville. 

“Hello.”

“Hey.” 

Draco sat up straighter. Neville sounded groggy, his eyes tired, his face pale. 

“Is something wrong?” 

He forced a thin smile, looking down and shaking his head. 

“Do you want to sit down?”

Neville sat beside him, staring at the backs of his hands. 

Draco waited for a moment before asking, “Do you not want to talk right now?”

“I can talk.” His voice was so meek.

Draco wanted to ask him where he’d been. He wanted to ask him what had happened, why he was being so quiet. But he waited for him to speak.

“I just got off the train. Gran was having me visit my parents.”

“Oh.”

 _Oh_.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

He shrugged it off, “I’d rather have something take my mind off it.”

“I can help you there.”

\--

As the dark of night fell, they snuck out of the castle, following the same motions they had done when they had gone to see the dragons, only this time Neville wasn’t scared. He held onto Draco’s hand and he couldn’t imagine himself anywhere else. The light from the moon was bright and they dashed across the grass, slick with dew, hurrying into the shadows of the trees just at the water’s edge, near where he and Ginny had tossed rocks into the frozen lake. Now the waves lapped at the shore, the only sound besides the wind. Far off near the cliffs, the towering Durmstrang ship shed light from tiny portholes, reflecting light onto the dark water.

They caught their breath, sitting on the ground, resting against a tree. Draco was significantly less winded than him, “What do you think you’ll do if you get in trouble? What’ll your grandmother say?”

“I don’t care.” He shook his head, still breathing hard.

They laid out on the grass staring up at the sky, millions of stars glittering like diamonds.

“I’ve never seen so many,” Neville said in a whisper, almost worried if he spoke too loud, his voice would disrupt the sky like ripples in a pond.

“You must live where the air is polluted.”

“No, I… I mean maybe… but we still live in the countryside.”

“Where do you live?”

“Cotswolds.”

For some reason, Draco’s eyes went wide and round. He could see the pinpricks of stars reflected against dull gray.

“Where do you live?” Neville asked.

“Wiltshire.”

 _Wiltshire_ . Something fluttered in his chest and he couldn’t make it out. Why was it such an odd thing for him to realize that Draco actually _lived_ somewhere? That he had a home he grew up in, felt safe in, would return to in the summer. He had known this before. This wasn’t new. The Malfoys had a manor in the countryside. He knew this. But it was the first time it seemed real. Draco had his own universe this whole time and only now did he realize how much of it he’d never even seen. 

Wiltshire. Neville had never been there, but if he was imagining it right in his head it wasn’t that far. Not far at all. If he had a map out right now he could fit his thumb between the space that separated them. His whole life growing up alone, and he had just been a thumbprint away. 

Draco brought him out of his thoughts, “When were you born?”

“Thirtieth of July.”

There were a few moments as Draco squinted at the sky before pointing, “Those are your stars over there. Your constellation. The lion… Maybe you do belong in Gryffindor after all?”

A laugh bubbled out of him, “What about you? Where’s yours?”

Draco sat up on his forearms, “I’m a Gemini. You can just barely see the heads of Castor and Pollux above that mountain over there,” He pointed towards the horizon. “But because I’m special I also have that one,” He pointed up near Polaris. “The Dragon.”

“Isn’t that the Little Dipper...?”

“Yes it is, but mine is right next to it, look-” Neville couldn’t help notice how he kept saying it like he owned the sky and stars and everything in between. Before he knew what was happening, Draco grabbed a hold of his wrist, maneuvering Neville’s hand until it pointed up at the zenith. He glided Neville’s hand across a slithering line of stars, “This is its tail. And those four stars at the end are its head. And see over there are its stumpy little legs.”

Draco’s hand was so warm, “It looks more like an elephant to me.”

“Well that’s because we’re looking at it upside down. Just tilt your head.” He kept hanging onto Neville’s hand, playing around with it, splaying out his fingers and tracing the fine lines along the skin of his palm. “Your hands are always so clammy.”

“Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to say sorry all the time.”

“Sorry...” He cringed inwardly.

“It’s fine.” Draco shook his head, finally letting him have his hand back. But with the warmth gone, Neville almost wished he would keep holding onto it.

A lifetime of silence passed by. The trees swayed in the wind, an owl gliding like a brush of paint. Windows of light gleamed from the towers and every once in a while, a shadow flickered by. He stared at the arched window he knew looked into the Gryffindor common room. How far away it seemed. He guessed Ginny would be in there with her other friends, not really missing him too much. Hermione would be studying, practically glowing under her lamp. Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Dean were probably playing some game in the dorm room - not really anything he would sorely miss. 

The castle seemed so small from beside the lake. He had only spent four years of his life here and yet it always felt so much longer than that. It felt like he had always been here, and he would continue to stay here forever. Maybe the extra years here had been passed down from his parents, seven more years from each adding on to his. 

It was too strange to believe his parents had ever been students at Hogwarts. In his mind they were only ever aurors and mental patients. Only ever the two. No teacher had ever even brought up his mother and father - never reminded him of how popular they once were, never accidentally called him Frank by mistake, never shared some lost memory of how they were when they were young, something he could hold onto, to be able to once and for all believe they were real, that they were alive, that they weren’t just names printed on hospital wristbands and pictures on the wall and the crinkle of candy wrappers in his pocket. 

“Neville, you’re crying.”

“I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong? Hey, look at me.” Draco brought Neville’s arm away from where it instinctively went up to hide his face. He held his wrist carefully in his hand, looking him in the eye. Warmth bloomed and rushed over him. 

Neville pulled his wrist back to his chest, falling to his heart where he could feel it pounding against his ribs. Tears slipped down the side of his cheek and into the grass, but he was breathing slower and deeper. Draco laid back down and pretended to be very interested in the stars again, but he kept his shoulder close enough to touch Neville’s side, keeping one point of contact, keeping Neville connected to something. 

“I… don’t know why I cry all the time.”

“Do you cry a lot?”

It was pathetic, he knew it, but he could remember being a little kid, crying to sleep most nights. And when he’d gone off to Hogwarts, it wasn’t any different - he just got better at muffling his sobs. He hated it. He hated that he was like this. Crying never helped anything. That’s what Gran said. But saying that never helped the crying. So he was just left to cry and cry and cry and feel useless about it. 

“Sometimes I cry so much, I feel like I might drown…”

Draco turned his head against the grass to look him in the eye, “What were you thinking about?”

A breeze drifted over the lake, carrying jasmine and pine and cool earth and honeysuckle and wet moss. 

“Neville?”

He pulled the wrapper from his pocket, holding it up against the moon, the light glowing through the yellow plastic like amber. He handed it to Draco.

“My mum has a sweet tooth. Gran says that's where I got mine, but I don’t even like candy. Anyway, I always make sure I have some to give to her. And every time… every time she gives me the wrapper back.” His voice choked up, “I know she doesn’t remember me… but she gives me the wrappers and I… I can’t throw them away, Draco, I can’t…”

Draco was pulling him tight in a hug, calming him down, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Neville couldn’t help it anymore, he broke down, crying into Draco’s neck. The position was awkward as they were still lying down in the grass but Neville held onto him like he was the only thing tethering him to the earth. They laid like that for a long time, the trees whispering and the crickets chirping. Neville could feel a wet patch where he rested his face on Draco’s shoulder and shame and embarrassment rushed over him in waves. But Draco held him close, brushing his hand through the knots and curls of Neville’s hair, his fingers massaging little circles on the back of his head.

After some time, Neville moved so his head was back against the ground, but his forehead still brushed against Draco. He felt like a little kid, wiping snot from his nose with the sleeve of his sweater, “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind.”

The rest of the world hummed and whistled around them. Neville felt his heart slow and calm itself, his breath falling in steady shallow breaths. He didn’t think he’d ever noticed his breathing so much as when it fell on Draco’s shoulder beside him. 

\--

Spring had come at last as stretches of white across the hills and mountains melted and luscious green pastures bloomed once again. White and yellow flowers sprouted up across the fields and the birds sang the new songs they had learned over their winter sojourn. March and April and May passed by in the blink of an eye. The routine of school and the approach of exams made it easy to get lost in books and studying. Draco helped Neville with his work and every once in a while, they would meet in the greenhouse and help garden when they were sure Professor Sprout was away. 

Life was simple. Draco ignored Potter and his friends - as Neville had advised him often to do. He still got warning glares from Ginny, but that was to be expected. His own friends had apparently worn Snape down and were out of detention less and less lately, but they only really saw each other for meals and during their classes anyway and even Pansy had lost interest in him. In fact, they had been having much more fun lately, giving interviews for Rita Skeeter, putting up a bad name for Potter, Hagrid, Hermione, and anyone else they disapproved of. Draco just decided to stay out of it and let them have their fun. In his eyes, it wasn’t really hurting anyone.

When he had free time after tutoring Neville, he began trying to repair the old turntable. He had never really done anything like that on such a large and intricate scale but he had rummaged around and found an old phonograph instruction manual (courtesy of the room he supposed) and figured it was worth a try. When Neville had finished his homework for the day, he’d sit down with Draco, holding the manual open for him and talking about whatever Thomas and Finnegan had been up to or even second-hand gossip from Ginny. Draco didn’t care. He just liked the sound of his voice.

On the first Saturday of June, Neville surprised him with a faded blue velvet bag, the size of a great pumpkin, lined with silver stars, “Happy Birthday, Draco!”

Draco took the bag in his hands, “Wow… gee. A bag. Thanks, Neville, I’ve been needing one of these.” He really was doing his best to look appreciative.

Neville rolled his eyes, “Look inside the bag.”

When he undid the golden drawstrings, he found a heap of brightly colored boxes, all varied in size. They looked like they’d been pulled straight from Zonko’s. He started pulling some out, checking the packaging, “Flying Saucer… Snow Blizzard… Fairy Fern… Lighthouse Flares…” He kept seeing the words “sparklers”, “fireworks”, and “flammable”. Sure, he’d seen firework shows at Quidditch games and things like that. He never knew they came in such little boxes though.

“They’re muggle kind. Really old, too. I’m not even sure if they’ll work. But I thought it might be fun to try? I found them lying around and… well I don’t really have any money to get you anything and-”

He shut him up with a quick hug, “Let’s try them out shall we?” 

They had to shove a lot of the clutter out of the way, worried of a loose spark falling onto an unfortunate pile of books. These fireworks were like pocket sized versions of the ones he’d seen at Quidditch matches, they weren’t very large, they didn’t show pictures or anything, but they were loud, pretty, and full of blinding light, green and orange and yellow and red and purple. He could understand a muggle’s fascination with them.

Digging around in the bag, there were packets of sparklers stuck at the bottom, some broken in half or crumbled, but still a few were left in fairly good condition. They lit them up and waved them around in the air, watching the sparks dance around and twirl in the air. They pretended to battle each other with the sticks as if they were swords, but a stray spark from one of the clashes fell onto Draco’s hand, which scared them both enough to keep from doing it again. When they were down to their last sparklers, they used the burning light to carve their names into the air, waving around in loops and swirls, letters only they could see.

When that was done, Neville suggested they actually write their names into the stone, “Right here next to the window!”

It was a little difficult as they had decided to do it with the burnt ends of the sparkler stick. By the time Neville had completely used up the burnt ash, he had only written the first three letters. _Nev_.

He sulked, “Of course you’re already done, your name’s so short.”

“We’re only two letters apart. You were just pressing too hard into the stone.” Draco brushed him to the side, using his sparkler to add the last four letters. It was a bit Frankenstein looking, his short scratchy scrawl next to Neville’s rounder, looping handwriting. They stood back, admiring their work, thin black lines nearly invisible against the ancient stones. 

“It would be funny if someone else ever found this. If they knew who we were and all,” Neville chuckled.

“Oh please, no one would ever assume it was us. I think they’d have a hundred reasonable explanations before thinking we were friends.”

As Draco helped pick up the discarded boxes and put them back into the velvet bag, he couldn’t help but think to himself that maybe he’d rather it was someone who didn’t know them at all who saw their names. In the end, maybe he’d like life better as just a name on a wall in a secret room in a castle - no face, no family, no destiny. Just side by side with another forgotten name.

\--

Tensions built up around the castle as the third task was coming closer and closer. Not to mention the arrival of their exams. What made it all worse was the beautiful sunny weather that made it nearly impossible to focus in class. Neville often found himself staring out the windows, not even really hearing the lectures, which proved disastrous when Moody chucked a stick of chalk at his head to get his attention. 

At least Draco was there to help him. With him around, it really felt like everything would be okay. The fear that had always boiled inside him around exams had been brought down to a low simmer. Everything would be okay. 

On the day of the final task, they had their History of Magic exam, which was one Neville was hardly worried about. Professor Binns’ tests, although incredibly long and wordy, were usually rather easy and this one was no different. He finished before their time was up, only having to guess on a few questions. After it was over and everyone was filing out of the room, he thought he even saw Draco shoot him a smile and a thumbs up before following the other Slytherins to the stairs.

The feast in the Great Hall had a few extra courses that night as the four champions were preparing themselves for the challenge - though judging from Harry’s queasy face and the way he hardly touched the food on his plate - it probably wasn’t necessary. 

After the feast had been magicked away, everyone filed out of the hall and down to the Quidditch stadium. He sat with Seamus and Dean and Ginny with the rest of the Gryffidors, staring down at the field that had grown into a shadowy twenty foot high hedge maze. All around, people were talking excitedly bringing out noisemakers, the stands rippling with the colors of Hufflepuff. When the champions walked out the crowd was loud and cheering, which made it all the more silent and eerie once they disappeared into the labyrinth, leaves and branches engulfing them in darkness. The moon crawled through patches of clouds in the sky as strange muffled sounds rang out from below every now and again. 

From across the field, in the stands opposite the Gryffindors, he could see Draco, hair shining in the light of the moon, talking with Pansy. It looked more like an argument than anything. 

He felt a nudge in his side. “And you make fun of me for staring,” Ginny grumbled over the growing chatter in the crowd. 

“I wasn’t-”

“What are you talking about?” Seamus leaned in, “Who’s he starin’ at?”

“Nothing. Nobody.” 

“Seamus, do you know how to play chopsticks?” Ginny was able to distract him with hand games, Dean and Neville joining in after it had been a whole hour with no news from the hedges. 

Then, from down in the maze, red sparks shot up into the sky. Neville couldn’t help but think they looked like fireworks. Teachers below moved into action, a robed figure hurrying into one of the entrances. He felt Ginny’s hand grab onto his, squeezing. Her eyes were locked on the darkness between the hedges. But it was silent again until a teacher retrieved Viktor Krum, unconscious. He could feel her grip on his hand relax if only slightly. He could hear Dean whisper, “Is he going to be alright?”

It was quiet again for a long while before a figure in pale blue emerged from the thick hedges. Fleur looked devastated, she was speaking with the teachers, Dumbledore, Madame Maxine, hurriedly and rubbing her neck. 

And so it was just Cedric and Harry inside. Time passed slower than ever. A summer breeze drifted over the crowd, cooling the sweat off of Neville’s brow. Fear had crept over the stadium, blazing hotter than any sun.

All at once, blinding light shot out from the entrance of the maze.

At first, nothing seemed wrong. Harry was lying flat on the grass, holding the Triwizard Cup! He had won! Gryffindor had won! The band struck up another joyous tune and Neville, like the rest of the crowd, erupted in cheers and clapping. 

Even from far away he could see Harry had Cedric Diggory with him, pinned to the ground under his body. Cedric was pale, staring up at the sky. He wasn’t moving.

There were screams. People rushed out to their shadows on the field. The band fizzled out of tune and stopped. Anxiety flooded Neville’s veins and he didn’t even know why. Seamus gripped his arm. Dimly, he heard Ginny say, “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“ _Dead!”_ Came an answer from below among the crowd that had engulfed the two Hogwarts champions, “ _Cedric Diggory! He’s dead!”_

Neville’s stomach dropped. More screams rang out in the night. People were crying. Ginny was burying her face in his sweater. The weight of her head on his chest grounded him, pulling him back to the earth. 

At some point Harry was dragged away from the crowd by Professor Moody, grabbing him by the collar off of the field. Soon after, teachers began escorting the rest of the students out of the stadium and back up to the castle. Tears streaked through the yellow and black paint across Hufflepuff faces. Flags and banners and noise makers were released from distracted hands. They walked towards the castle as if in a daze, as if in a dream. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening.

Nobody wanted to say anything in the dorm that night. Neville just stared at the canopy above his head. It seemed pretty absolute. Dumbledore had been down there too, he’d seen Cedric. He’d seen the body. But there was a tiny bit of hope. The possibility that they could bring him back. They lived at Hogwarts for goodness sake! No one died at Hogwarts. Not now anyway. It was different now. They were safe here. There must be some way for a Dark Arts teacher to bring him back or a potion Snape could brew or a root in Sprout’s garden or a few nights in the hospital wing or- or-

Or else Cedric Diggory was really gone. Cedric the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain. Cedric the prefect. Cedric with kind eyes and dark hair. Cedric, who was tall and muscular and handsome, but quiet and shy when you really got to talk to him. It was all gone.

Neville remembered the first time he ever really met him, he’d been a short little second year helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouses. Cedric had stopped by to ask Sprout something about their next Quidditch meeting or something like that and instead he ended up asking Neville his name, what year he was in, how he was liking Hogwarts so far and things like that. With what they later found out was a Basilisk stalking the pipe system, Neville had been terrified of every minute he spent in the castle, and Cedric was sympathetic. He gave him advice on how to deal with Snape and the house ghosts and any other person in the school who wanted to bully him. He even told him to let him know the names of any student bothering him and that he would “deal with them”. Neville was of course too afraid to ever really go to him for help like that, but it was comforting to see him in the halls or when he stopped by the greenhouses every once in a while. Neville could see every smile and wave sent his way perfectly in his mind. He couldn’t believe he was really dead. It just wasn’t possible.

Neville couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t tired. He didn’t feel like crying either. He just felt… empty.

The next few days were strange. The castle was quieter. It felt like all the wind and the wildlife surrounding the grounds had just stopped. There were no wolf cries at night, no familiar hooting of owls, even Crookshanks stayed silent, curled up in a ball near the window of the Gryffindor tower. 

But even with the silence, gossip still bloomed more than ever. Neville heard it from Hermione over his breakfast. She explained that Professor Moody had been under the effects of a polyjuice potion the whole year and that he had really been Barty Crouch Junior. 

Neville remembered the moment she said it, his hand slipped and he ended up with a lapful of porridge. He excused himself to the bathroom to clean his trousers, his heart beating faster and his breathing coming out in uneven huffs. He wiped most of the mess off but his hands were shaking so bad, his head spinning. He ended up locking himself in one of the stalls to sit and hold his head still, his cold clammy hands providing some relief to his burning skin. 

_Barty Crouch Junior._ The man who helped torture his parents. The man who, for all he knew, was dead and buried out on a rock in the middle of the ocean. He had been Professor Moody the whole time. He had been in the same castle, the same _classroom_ as his parents’ torturer for a whole year. The man had comforted him after their first class, had feigned interest in his little life, had gifted him an herbology book that was sitting in his book bag up in the Gryffindor tower _right now._

What portion of porridge that hadn’t spilled on his pants, was thrown back up in the toilet bowl. Cold shivers ran down his spine. He finally burst into tears and didn’t even try to stop. His hair was slick with sweat and stuck to his face as he sat on the grimy stone floor and hugged the base of the toilet, sobbing like a little kid. 

Later on at night, hushed in their dorm, it was Ron who was going on about the Death Eaters Harry had seen in the graveyard. Avery. Nott. Macnair. Crabbe. Goyle. _Malfoy._

“Of course it’s the dads of all those snot nosed pricks,” Seamus grumbled. “I didn’t expect anything else.”

Neville avoided looking at Draco. Over dinner, in the halls, during their exams. He glued his eyes to the floor anytime white hair passed his vision.

When Harry was released from the Hospital wing and joined the others in the Gryffindor tower a few nights later, there wasn’t much talking, the tension in the air forbade it. He looked different. Not from the scratches on his face or the bandages wrapped around his arm, but his eyes. He looked so much older than fourteen. Neville tried to avoid him when he could, he didn’t know what to say, and he knew if he tried, it’d come out all wrong. It was best he just gave him the silence it seemed he was after.

At the same time, Rita Skeeter’s latest article had come out and Harry was made out to be a dangerous lunatic, heralding You-know-who’s return. But Voldemort was dead. He’d been dead for thirteen years. Barty Crouch Junior was supposedly following orders to come and be the Dark Arts Teacher - but those were just voices in his head, weren’t they? The man had been kept away from society for too long, there was no way he was in his right mind. And there was no way Voldemort was back either. 

Neville had just been coming in to grab his book bag from their dorm when he saw Harry sitting on his bed, startled by the door suddenly opening. These days, Harry woke up later and later and usually missed breakfast. Here Neville was on his way to his transfiguration exam, and Harry had only just gotten dressed and was tying his shoelaces. 

They exchanged awkward greetings, Neville grabbing his bag from where it slumped at the foot of his bed before making for the door. But he stopped midway, hanging onto the frame. He knew Harry didn’t want to talk, but he couldn’t help it anymore. 

“Harry, is it true?”

He turned to see him stare back at him with tired, drooping eyes, “What have you heard?”

“Y-you-know-who… is he… is he really back.”

Harry stared at him with an unreadable look for a moment, was it sympathy even? He gave a very small and short nod.

“You… you saw him?”

Harry’s voice was hoarse from sleep, or maybe the lack of it, “Yeah.”

Neville could have left right then. He should have left. But something had been nagging his mind and wouldn’t let him go.

“And you saw the Death Eaters?”

Again, a nod, “A few, yeah.”

_He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t ask. Just leave it alone._

“Was Dra-” Neville corrected himself, “Was Malfoy’s dad… was he one of them?”

Harry didn’t notice anything strange about the question, nodding, shrugging, and answering flatly, “No surprises there.”

Neville couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t believe Harry. He trusted him to the ends of the earth. He was his first friend at Hogwarts. One of the few people that never really judged him. He wouldn’t lie about something like this. 

Voldemort was back. He was the reason his parents were tortured in the first place. Death Eaters wanted information on their leaders whereabouts and apparently they were going to torture any old auror family for that information. It didn’t have to be them. It could have been anybody’s parents. Anyone else’s besides his. 

Maybe Harry was the only other person he knew who knew how that felt. Neville’s parents weren’t dead, but they didn’t even know him anymore. They were strangers. 

And Draco’s father. Lucius Malfoy. Well, he had known it all along. He just didn’t want to believe it. Draco made it so easy to forget. 

It was after their potions exam (Neville didn’t know how the concoction in his cauldron didn’t explode) that Neville was given a message from Draco. He’d slipped it in his palm as he made his way out of the dungeons - a rolled up strip of parchment only reading “ _7th floor after dinner”_.

That night, he gave up trying to eat his food and made his way up to the Room of Requirement, taking the moving staircases, his nerves not really wanting him there any earlier than he had to be. Perched near the window was Draco, who stood up sharply when he drew close.

“There you are, I’ve been waiting for you these past few days and… how are you?”

“I’m… alright.” Neville lied easily, “How are you?”

“Better than most, it seems… Listen I- I heard about Mad Eye. Neville, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like it matters anyway. He’s dead now.” When Fudge found out, he gave him the dementor’s kiss. He was gone.

“Well that’s good then right?”

The same phrase kept coming back to Neville over and over again since he’d heard it. It was the only thing he could think about anymore. “You-know-who is back.”

A moment passed. Two, three moments passed. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“Harry said so himself.”

Draco stared him down with a condescending look.

“You-know-who is back. He’s alive. _He killed Cedric_.”

“Cedric knew what he was getting into when he put his name in the Goblet of Fire just like Potter did. Cedric just wasn’t skilled enough to survive the task-”

“The cup was a portkey that took them to a graveyard where You-know-who was reborn. He killed Cedric. _Harry almost died_.”

“Do you realize how crazy you sound?”

Neville couldn’t hold it back anymore, everything was flooding out of his mouth. “Your father was there. In the graveyard. Harry saw him. And the rest of your friends’ parents.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “He just hates me.”

“ _He saw your dad_.”

“ _And you believe that egotistical, lying-_?!”

“Harry wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t?” Draco crossed his arms.

“He’s… he’s my friend. He was the first friend I ever had.” The truth in what he had just said was like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t made a single friend until he was eleven years old. He was the first person he’d ever met who didn’t make him feel like a burden. But Harry had always been there. He defended him when others turned away. Harry was there when Neville couldn’t defend himself against Draco.

There was a strange glint in Draco’s eyes, “Oh please, I’ve seen the way he treats you.”

“What do you mean.”

“You know what I mean. He’s only nice to you because he feels bad for you. It’s obvious he’d rather not have you around in the first place. Don’t tell me you never noticed.”

Fire burned in Neville’s gut. His heartbeat felt like clashes of thunder. He had never wanted to punch Draco so bad. “Shut up.” 

“Am I wrong?”

“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Neville had to turn away from him, clenching and unclenching his fists. He tried to calm himself down, but Draco’s words kept echoing around in his head. Every feeling of insecurity came rushing back. Every doubt he had learned to forget. 

“Neville…” At that moment he hated his voice. He hated the way he said his name, “Neville, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it-”

“God, _why did I even think you would listen?_ … you _know_ what you’re dad is but- but you’re just too afraid to accept it.”

Draco caught his eye, announcing every word like holy scripture, “ _My father is not a bad man_.”

“I’ve seen him hit you with his cane before.” Glimpses of the brief moments he had seen Lucius and his son out in Diagon Alley or at King’s Cross came flooding back. They were things you only noticed out of the corner of your eye. They were things you just didn’t talk about. 

His eyes widened, anger, disbelief, _fear,_ “ _Don’t you dare-”_

“I know he’s your dad… and I know this isn’t easy but… you can’t be this blind.”

“Don’t you _ever_ talk about my father like that.”

“ _It’s the truth!”_

Draco exploded, _“Potter’s lying to you!_ He just wants attention! Maybe _he_ killed Cedric so he could have all the glory to himself!”

“ _You’re so_ …” Neville could feel himself shaking. He couldn’t even speak anymore.

“Forget it. Forget it. I don’t care. I have an exam to study for. Goodnight.” Neville was out of the room faster than his legs could take him.

“You know I’m right!” He heard Draco calling out, so far away. But Neville couldn’t hear him anymore.

The rest of the week went by quick, classes getting out earlier than normal, teachers weren’t as strict. Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were cancelled until Professor Moody - the real Alastor Moody - was back to full health. Neville spent every bit of free time in the greenhouses. He couldn’t talk to Ginny like he used to. She tried. But she didn’t know what was wrong. Why he’d gotten so quiet. Why he couldn’t sleep at night. Why the nightmares of his parents being tortured had come back in full force. None of his friends knew about his parents. Not one.

 _Except Draco_.

Neville chose not to think about him. He didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes lowered half the time he walked the halls, focused on not tripping on his laces or anything else to make a fool of himself. It would be like him wouldn’t it? That he was just some clumsy burden everyone pitied? He kept replaying Draco’s words, his face, each time adding more horrible sentiments to hear from his voice. Words that cut into him like daggers. Words Draco never said, he would never say - or maybe he just felt sorry enough for Neville to keep his mouth shut. 

He forced himself to stop thinking about him. But it never worked. It only got worse. 

The end of the year feast had become a memorial for Cedric, the Great Hall lined in black. Dumbledore spoke, but for the most part, Neville couldn’t hear. He stared at the wooden table in front of him, cracked and stained with age. He just wanted to go home. 

The next day, when the train finally stationed at King’s Cross and Neville spotted his Gran from the platform, vulture adorned hat and all, he couldn’t get to her quicker. 

“Neville, dear I-” She was cut off by Neville pulling her into a tight hug. He was nearly as tall as she was now, his head resting on her shoulder. He held onto her and after a few moments, he felt her place her hands awkwardly and just barely on his arms. Never in all his life had he ever hugged her like this, not since he was very little. 

“Okay.” By her voice, he could tell she was trying very hard to sound comforting. It wasn’t working but he could tell she was trying, “Okay. Alright. That’s enough now, dear. That’s enough.” He let go. 

She looked him over a moment, her face wrinkling in a way he couldn’t read. She breathed a sigh through her nose, nodding, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Let’s get you home, dear.”

She always called him that, dear, when she was most uncomfortable. “And stand up straight. You don’t want to look like Quasimodo when you’re an adult now do you?"

Just seeing the steps leading up to their house was enough to bring a wave of relief over him. As the wind blew through the branches of the willow tree out front, the gust of air brought him back. He felt like he could breathe again. 

The century old rugs across the floor, faded in color. The burnt out chandeliers. The pictures along the wall. His mom’s round, happy face. His father’s toothy grin. 

“Supper will be ready soon. Unpack your things.” It was the same thing she said every year when he returned home. It was routine. It was comforting.

He lugged his suitcase up the steps and into his room, the yellow wallpaper a stark contrast to the overcast sunset outside his window. He drew the curtains closed, flipping on the mooncalf lamp on his nightstand.

And there, sitting beside it were the daisies he’d pressed last summer, the ones he’d planned on giving to Draco at the start of the year, but were now wilted and grey, brittle petals breaking off easily. A hollowness grew inside him.

He felt like throwing them away, chucking them out of his window and forgetting about them. But they ended up stuffed in his sock drawer, pushed in the very back corner where he wouldn’t have to look at them. He just couldn’t throw them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to give readers an estimate, there should be at least 10 (probably more tho) chapters in this fic before it’s done. I will try to keep updating as soon as i can, i promise i wont leave this story hanging. And yes spoiler alert they do end up together in the end… but it takes a loooong time. Thanks for reading. Stay safe! Happy Pride Month! I love you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you mightve guessed this fic is mostly just the books from nev and draco’s pov… So a bunch of the dialogue is taken straight out of OotP - pretty sure these two chapters will be the only ones that do that! It’s just that OotP has actual good Neville scenes and I like staying relatively canon compliant so... )-:
> 
> I'm not totally happy with this chapter but oh well here u go

_ Happy Birthday Nev! _

_ Don’t know if this will actually get to you on time for your birthday. I didn’t have any money, and I didn’t really know what to get you that you might not already have. I asked my mum for some money to get you something and she just sat down and knitted you this (hopefully Pigwidgeon hasn’t dropped it along the way). Normally she makes them for Christmas, so you’ll probably be getting another one before the year is over… and the year after that and the year after that. Oh and she also wanted to thank you for taking me to the ball last year. ~~I think my mum would love you if she ever met you.~~ _

_ Anyway, she knitted you this, but all the embroidery on the ‘N’ and the sleeves were done by me. It took fucking forever and I guess I messed up in a couple places, but I can accept zero criticism right now, my fingers are all bandaged up from poking myself so much. So yeah, make sure you’re careful with it or it’ll probably all fall apart.  _

_ Ginny _

Opening up the parcel that had been attached to the foot of an exhausted little owl, Neville found a folded up sweater. The multicolored wool was interspersed with sea foam and periwinkle and a dark indigo, and just as Ginny had written, a large golden N was emblazoned on the front, but thin embroidered fern garlands snaked their way between the gold. From the sleeves grew thin daisies, enchanted so that they almost seemed to sway in the breeze, their petals shaking ever so softly. 

It was the most ugly and beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And the fact that Ginny and her mother had made it together made him wipe his eyes. If it wasn’t so hot out, he would have pledged to wear it every day. He made sure to send a letter back with Pigwidgeon, thanking her and her mother and asking when her birthday was so that he might return the favor.

From Gran, he was given a new leather book bag and a bottle of acne-cleansing potion. A week after his birthday, he received a small crate, carried in by a Great Grey owl who stared at him with sharp eyes, pecking him a little on his hand before flying out the bay window of the kitchen. It had been Uncle Algie and Auntie Enid’s owl, a terrifying beast that took pleasure in nipping at his hand whenever it brought packages for his birthday and Christmas. He almost wished they would just visit and bring their gifts with them instead - cutting out the owl from the whole procedure. 

Neville had to ask for Gran’s help to open the crate, finding inside a small potted plant, like a cactus only with boils sprouting from its prickly green skin. It was like an immediate rush of excitement, he ran upstairs grabbing his  _ Complete Herbologist’s Encyclopedia,  _ flipping around rapidly until he found a page with a slightly more mature version of the plant. It was a Mimbulus mimbletonia, he read, famous for a unique defense mechanism which squirted Stinksap from its boils when prodded. He had only vaguely heard of these plants but he was excited he could own one himself and was already thinking of other plants he could try breeding it with and how tall it might grow before school started again.

Over the Summer, he mostly spent his time gardening, pulling weeds that had accumulated in the garden over the time he’d been away from home. But soon the work was done and he only got out of the house to water everything before going back inside with nothing to do. He felt like he kept having the same thoughts over and over again, staring at the same walls. He kept repeating moments in his brain, watching from high up in a tower Dean climbing on Seamus’s back, snowflakes on freckles and red eyelashes, Cedric’s body lying on the grass. 

And Draco. He never stopped thinking about Draco. 

It brought back memories of their time together, but now all those moments seemed tainted over by their last argument. He hadn’t spoken to him since then, had hardly looked at him before the train ride back home. He hated how often he thought of him now, how he couldn’t get that smug grin out of his mind. He couldn’t believe he had wasted so much time with someone so… so immature. The words he said rang in his ears, sparking new waves of hatred inside him, to the point where he had to force himself to stop thinking about him.

On a particularly bad day, when he couldn’t escape the same voice mocking him - “ _ Potter’s only nice to you because he feels bad for you. It’s obvious he’d rather not have you around in the first place _ ” - he just got up and walked out of the house, without alerting his grandmother beforehand and not really knowing where he was going. The Longbottom’s estate was placed on a hill, a little ways off from a long dirt road. The nearest neighbor was about a mile away with nothing but trees and fields of grass in between and the nearest village was a few more miles down the road. He had only been near the populated area a few times, and only briefly with his grandmother. 

It was an hour of squinting up at trees and counting sheep grazing the hills before he came to the cobbled streets of the little town. It was much different from London or Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade or Blackpool where he visited his grand uncle and aunt. Everything was given space to breathe and spread out like rocks along a beach. There were shops, a cafe, a couple restaurants, a church, and a library, all surrounded by houses that extended further out in the opposite direction. At the center of town, there was a park with poplar trees and people playing with dogs and a few kids running around. 

It was weird to think they were all muggles. Anytime he’d been in the presence of muggles, he’d always had his Gran there. But now it was just him.

A pack of teenagers walked by on the sidewalk, just about his age, and though they were absorbed in their conversation, they looked him up and down, quizzically. All at once, self-consciousness rushed over him. He knew he was wearing second-hand muggle clothes, things so old, they probably used to be his Great Uncle Algie’s. His Gran never believed in buying anything brand new. It wasn’t like they didn’t have the money for it, but Gran always seemed to think it wasteful. 

Which was probably the reason there were so many boxes of things lying around the house. Every inch of surface was used to display her hoard of trinkets and treasures. Yet she seemed to hound him for keeping his mother’s wrappers. Perhaps she drew the line at what she deemed trash. Still, if she never found the drawers in his room filled with crinkled taffy paper, who was it harming? 

Over the course of the holiday, he kept walking down to the town, aimlessly wandering around and peering into the shops. Gran found out of course, but it didn’t seem to bother her much, as long as he promised to come home before dark. 

It was halfway through August before he felt brave enough to walk into one of the shops. He wasn’t scared of muggles, but he was scared of having to talk to them. He was just so sure he would say something wrong. He already had a hard time talking to other magical people, how the hell was he supposed to know what to say to non-magic folk? For the most part he was able to avoid talking to other people, quietly walking around the library, just staring at the spines. After he felt comfortable, he moved on to look inside an antique shop, lamps and couches and bookshelves of knick knacks almost reminding him what it was like in the Room of Requirement. In the back, there were even boxes with records for sale and he spent a great deal of time perusing through the titles and staring at the album art, enjoying the familiar shifting weight in his fingers. If he had any muggle money, he would have bought a few, but he was content with admiring the pictures for now. The only time he had to say anything was a polite “hello” back to the lady who greeted him from behind the cash register. 

One day as he was passing the church, there was a little sign out front advertising their Cinema Club’s meetings, 7:30 every Wednesday night. Neville obviously knew what a movie was, he paid attention in his muggle studies class, but he’d never seen a real one and he couldn’t say he wasn’t curious. When he’d asked his Gran she flat out said no, which he hadn’t been expecting. His whole life she had pushed him to learn more and move out of his comfort zone and take risks. It felt hypocritical of her now to deprive him from this small freedom. 

After dinner that Wednesday night, he felt a rush of energy overtake him. He looked out of his bedroom window, the same one his Uncle Algie had accidentally dropped him out of when he was just a baby. There was a trellis that climbed all the way up, interspersed with ivy. If he was careful he could climb down and sneak out.

Without a further thought, he slipped into his tennis shoes, opening his window and climbing out, carefully placing his feet on every ledge. He got about halfway down when his grip wobbled, his shoe slipped on a leaf, and he fell backwards the rest of the way. Thankfully he landed in the bushes and only came out with some minor scrapes on his hands, brushing himself off and running down the hill towards the road. 

When he made it to the church, the doors were open, and though it was dark inside, the movie had already started and the light coming from the projector was enough for him to find a folded chair towards the back, hoping the few other people in attendance wouldn’t notice the squeaking of his shoes. 

The first thing he noticed was the fact that the narrator wasn’t speaking English, it was in an unfamiliar language, all rolling r’s and sharp consonants. He had to rely on the tiny yellow words that flashed across the screen, but he grew tired of trying to read as fast as the words came and was too entranced by the imagery. There were flowers and fairies and an immense blue forest and he quickly caught on by the names of the characters that it was some sort of puppet rendition of one of the Shakespeare plays Draco had read to him. 

Neville even found himself laughing at certain points in the film - whenever the fairy king scolded Puck by pinching his ear, when Bottom was calling out to Thisbe in his tiny little voice, or when Lysander saw himself reflected in the forest and tried to catch it off guard. He was really the only one laughing, though, and tried to stifle himself with a hand over his mouth. 

By the time the credits began to roll, Neville snuck quietly back out. The sun had already begun to set when he had gone in, but it was dark out now, and he was glad there were street lamps to guide him back to the old dirt road. From there, however, it was pitch black. Trees loomed over him, swaying in the wind and clawing at him with trembling leaves. Every rustle from a bush felt like the end. He hadn’t even thought to bring his wand with him - he never did when he went down into the little town. There was no reason when he wasn’t allowed to do magic outside of school anyway, let alone in the presence of muggles. But now he just felt stupid. As the lights from their house on the hill came closer, he picked up his pace, almost running to make it to the trellis and climbing up. 

His stomach did a flip once he realized the window was shut tight. He tried to budge it open, but with only one free hand, the other hand barely holding him to the side of the house, he couldn’t get a grip on it. He was stuck. 

He carefully climbed back down and sat in the bushes, reassessing his options. If the window was shut on purpose, Gran must already know he snuck out, which made another wave of uneasiness roll over him. All the lights in the house were reflected out onto the grass, which meant she was definitely still awake and waiting for him. Which meant she was probably waiting to murder or ground him or whatever other terrible idea she had in mind. 

And for what? All because she didn’t want him watching a muggle movie? Probably because she thought it would turn him even more into a squib than he already was. 

Rage bubbled to the surface as he marched around to the back porch. There was a door through the garden he could sneak into right next to the staircase. As long as she wasn’t in the parlour room, he could make it.

But as soon as he opened the door he heard her voice, standing up from her wingback chair, “ _ Neville Franklin Harfang Longbottom _ , I’ve been worried  _ sick!” _ He hated when she said his full name. In all honesty, he hated his full name altogether. It was too long and filled with names of people she always complained he had let down. The scary thing too was that she actually sounded worried and angry this time. Normally it was just passive disappointment. 

“M’fine, no need to worry about me,” He was already headed out of the parlour towards the stairs.

“Stop right there, young man!” Neville reluctantly stopped in the doorway and turned, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. There was a faint smell of smoke in the air.

“Do you have  _ any _ idea the amount of stress you’ve put me through the past few hours you’ve been gone?”

Neville scuffed the back of his shoe across the rug, “I was only gone for two hours…”

She set the newspaper down on a side table rather forcefully, rattling an ashtray, “Since our minister isn’t going to tell you, since the newspapers won’t tell you, I don’t even know what your school has been telling you - you’ll be hearing it from me.” Her hard eyes were set on him, an icy blue. “Voldemort is back.”

He’d never heard her say that name and a chill ran down his spine. Of course he’d heard this speech from Dumbledore already, but it was different hearing it in her cold, blunt, matter of fact way. “There are people out there who will want to torture you just like they did your father and mother. There will be people who want to kill you. Do you understand that?”

“You come home when I tell you to. It’s my job to make sure you’re kept safe and I can’t do that when you want to play the rebellious little teenager. You need to  _ grow up. _ ” She snapped and he could already feel the tears welling up inside him.

It must’ve been obvious to her because she sighed a little, “You’re all that’s left of your parents. I would hope you would be more responsible for yourself - for their sake at least.” 

The hours of walking suddenly crashed down on him and he felt exhausted. He shuffled to the couch opposite her, sinking into the synthetic velour. It seemed she was a little surprised he was choosing to stay in the room with her, instead of retreating back to his room like he always did. Nevertheless, she settled back down in her chair, patterns of autumnal leaves, cabins, and wild geese, shifting under her delicate weight. They sat for a long while in silence, Neville staring at his hands resting on his knees, blinking hard. 

The dancing fire reflected on her drooping eyes, “You were always a fussy child. I never had any problems with Frank… but you… you were different, I suppose.” 

She sighed, speaking slow, as if he wasn’t even in the room. “You wouldn’t let me hold you as a baby. You’d scream bloody murder until your mother would come rescue you, poor thing. The day your parents didn’t come home, you started hitting your head against the bars of your crib... I had to get Franklin to tie pillows to the bars so you wouldn’t get a concussion.”

Neville drew an absentminded hand to the top of his head, rubbing at the skin there. 

“You must have been… what, two? Three years old at the time? You kept asking for your mother. After that you only let your Grandad hold you. You never liked me much.”

“Gran I… that’s not true.”

“It’s not your fault. You were a child.” It was weird hearing about himself this way. It was like they were talking about a different person. He didn’t remember any of his early childhood. It was all just fragments of memories. The feeling of carpet along his skin or coloring the back of the couch purple with crayons. He remembered getting scolded a lot too. 

“Gran? Can I ask you a question?”

“Hm.”

“Well… It’s just... I’ve never heard you talk about my-my mother’s side of the family. The uh…” He’d seen the name on random documents, old letters kept in drawers, “The Callahans?”

She stared fixedly at the clock above the fireplace, “I only met them a few times. Once or twice before the wedding. Nice people, they seemed. They were killed during a Death Eater attack. Nothing personal. Collateral damage. I suppose that was one of the reasons your mother fought so hard...” She kept emotion from her voice, speaking nonchalantly. Now Neville wished he hadn’t even asked. He’d always held out hope that that side of the family were somewhere out there, waiting for him, maybe. 

“You sound just like her sometimes, you know,” Augusta was looking at him head on now, the barest hint of a smile softening her wrinkled face. He knew she meant his mother. “Your voice. You talk like her. I don’t know how, but you do.”

Part of him flushed, trying to know which parts of his speech came from her exactly. How had it creeped through him without his notice? What did she sound like when she spoke? He had never known. Another part of him felt a vague disappointment. She always reminded him how much he was like his mother, never his father. And that was usually for a reason. If Neville inherited his mother’s voice, her plump figure, her face, her love for nature - what from his father was left over? 

He got up from the couch, stopping in the doorway, “Gran… I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what specifically he was apologizing for. For sneaking out at night, for becoming too much like his mother, for the death of her son, her husband. There were too many things he couldn’t fix, he didn’t know how to. 

When she didn’t reply, he made his way up the stairs, into his room, onto his bed and promptly fell into a dreamless sleep.

\--

Barely had summer vacation started when Draco came down with a fever and was bedridden until August. He hadn’t been this sick since he was a kid, when he was ill quite often. He’d always been a rather frail child, which gave his mother more excuses to smother him and his father more reason to toughen him up. 

Every time he felt himself getting better, he’d try going outside - against his mother’s wishes of course. He’d run across the fields surrounding the manor, hoping the fresh air and the exercise would improve his health. But it only seemed to make things worse. He’d overexert himself and have to go back to lying in bed all day with a cold towel wrapped around his head. His life was hell. 

He hated feeling useless, unable to do anything besides drink his mother’s subpar soup (since they were out of a house elf she had started to learn to cook. While it wasn’t the best food he’d had, it was better than whatever inedible dishes his father had tried to make) and read the books kept in their private library. It wasn’t as large as the one kept at Hogwarts, but for a family library it was extensive. He’d gone through most of the adventure series as a child, _The Flap of the Cape_ , _Knights and Serpents_ , _The_ _Pegasi of Odessa,_ all written by witches and wizards. Muggle books were forbidden in their house. Reading whatever he found in the Room of Requirement had been exhilarating as most he could tell were written by muggles - hidden contraband, he assumed. His parents had always told him muggles were inferior. It was common knowledge. But the writing he found in books like _Treasure Island_ and _Great Expectations_ and all of Shakespeare’s plays were like a breath of fresh air. He was used to narrow minded, tedious, unimaginative writing where every plot and adventure felt predetermined and calculated, the heroes were never scared. They knew they would win in the end. But in muggle stories he found a deeper sense of humanity than he had ever read. The heroes weren’t always sure of themselves. They didn’t always have the answers. In a way, he could relate to them much more than any wizard boy he read about. 

It scared him a little. He only had his book of Shakespeare to keep him company and he kept it hidden underneath his pillow, only taking it out at night under the light of a candle. While it gave him some sense of belonging to the world, it seemed to only dig at his heart a little more. The smell of the old pages and the innocuous underlined words and phrases brought him back to his time with Neville. He would be transported back to the room and the dust motes dancing in the light and the couches and sparklers and the moonlight across water and the constellations and the smell of grass and the soft curls of his best friend’s hair under his fingers. Flipping through pages he could see buck teeth grinning and the faintest freckles and hazel eyes… brown eyes… or blue? It frightened him to think he might have forgotten when he used to be so sure, when his face used to come so easily to mind. 

Boredom drove him to writing letters addressed to him. Complaining about the nice weather and the fact he was locked up inside. Sharing anecdotes he’d never had time to tell him. None of the letters were ever sent, of course. He burnt them to ashes, swept into his wastebasket, and forgotten about. 

It was as he was recovering from the fever that the letter and prefect badge came. His mother was so proud but he was sure his father had bribed someone. Either way he held Draco’s shoulder firmly with a real look of approval in his eye. It was like winning a trophy for something he didn’t deserve. And Draco really didn’t want to be a prefect. It sounded like a lot of extra meaningless work. But he couldn’t say no. 

It ended up being just a lot of babysitting. He had to spend most of the train ride to school monitoring the corridors and making sure the first years were getting their robes on right, having to help a few who didn’t even know how to tie their tie. He kept thinking to himself that surely he hadn’t been that short as an eleven-year-old. And he definitely hadn’t been quiet, that’s for sure, most too scared to even talk to each other. He knew by the end of the year, there wouldn’t be anything you could do to get them to shut up. 

Halfway through the journey he was allowed to sit back with the rest of his friends. Pansy, of course, had been picked as the other prefect, and she couldn’t stop mentioning how it was a “match made in heaven”. He grew bored rather quickly having to listen to her rattle on about what she did every single day of the holiday and decided to nudge Crabbe and Goyle to go find Potter and his friends and give him a proper greeting, as had become custom for them. Their annual ritual had started as a way to get a rise out of him, annoying Potter was just a way to stave off boredom. And it was fun when the guy really truly hated his guts. 

Not to mention the weird butterflies in his stomach that flew higher into his throat as he hoped Neville might be sitting with him. That he might be able to see him again. He just wanted to see him. He didn’t really care if he hated him too now. 

Okay that was a lie. He did care. But he thought he might be able to accept it as long as he could see his face. 

Honestly he couldn’t remember exactly how everything had ended last year. Surely Neville would see he was wrong and apologize. Surely they could just forget about it all and go back to where they were. Maybe he had just imagined all the hatred? Maybe he really didn’t care about all that anymore. Maybe Neville missed him just as much as he did.

When Draco opened their compartment door, he found Potter, Granger, two of the Weasleys,  _ Loony Lovegood,  _ and of course, Neville, all staring back at him in irritation - except for the last two, as Loony had her nose stuck in a magazine, and Neville kept his eyes lowered on the potted plant seated in his lap. 

“What?” Potter rounded on him. He had never sounded so angry so early on in the year. This would be fun.

“Manners, Potter, or I’ll have to give you detention,” He couldn’t help a smirk that came over his face as Potter looked about ready to kill him. “You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.”

“Yeah, but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”

The whole compartment laughed. Even Neville, who was trying to bite back a smile as he kept his eyes on the carpeted flooring. A wave of embarrassment rushed over him but it was almost worth it to see that curl of his lip. 

“Watch yourself, Potter. One step out of line and I’ll be there,” He turned to Crabbe and Goyle and gave one final glare at that lightning scar before leaving, hearing Granger slam the door shut.

That night in the Great Hall, Draco wasn’t at all surprised to see a short squat woman dressed in pink sitting at the staff table. He’d been introduced to her when he was younger and his father was always friendly towards her whenever they ran into each other at the Ministry. Another one of his friends he assumed. It’d only make sense to see a Ministry Official finally intervening at Hogwarts if people were running around saying You-know-who was back. It was about time someone stepped in to stop that nonsense. 

And she did just as much the next day in Defense Against the Dark Arts. It had been their last class of a very long and boring day with nothing but great sloshes of rain pattering against the window panes to break the settling ennui. The tension that had been growing broke when Umbridge made it clear they were not going to be practicing defensive spells in her class, as she kept repeating in her sickly sweet voice: “ _ Do you expect to be attacked during my classes?” _

Granger, Thomas, Weasley, and Potter kept arguing back and forth with her and if anything it was at least amusing to watch. Especially when Potter lost his temper and was kicked out of class. Draco really didn’t understand how he got off, bringing up Cedric Diggory’s death in front of everyone like they didn’t already know about it. He died in the maze last year. Things like that used to happen all the time at Hogwarts. Potter just seemed to spiral out of control with conspiracies against the ministry for attention. At least it kept the rest of them entertained.

Every night that Draco had to patrol the hallways, he kept thinking of that room up on the seventh floor. Even if he had the time to make it up there, something inside him told him he wouldn’t find Neville there. But he kept imagining it anyway, bursting through the doors, seeing him there, smiling, telling him how much he missed him, acting as if nothing had happened. That his hatred was just an act.

But every time Draco had tried to catch his eye across the Great Hall or in class or in the corridor, he knew he was deliberately avoiding looking at him. Whenever their paths were about to cross in some hallway, Neville moved as far away as he could or straight out cut down a different hall, even when he knew they had the same class next. It didn’t take long for it to become irritating, scratching at the back of Draco’s mind. 

But Neville had made his choice. He had chosen his side. And whether Draco knew it or not, he had chosen his own as well.

\--

After the Summer was over, Neville had been excited to see his friends again, to gain some sense of normalcy back in his life, to have classes to distract him. But as soon as they were all together again, everything fell apart. Seamus and Harry were ignoring each other’s existence after a fight the first night back - which made staying in the dorm room with both of them unbearable. Any time he hung around Seamus, Neville was told off about hanging around Harry - and when he hung around Harry, he was distant and skeptical, overall not really looking for any conversation beyond the strained small talk Neville managed. 

Ginny was spending all her time with her new boyfriend and his friend group. She had mentioned Michael Corner in a few of their letters over the Summer, writing lengthy paragraphs about his dark hair that swept across his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He wasn’t entirely certain who she had been talking about until he saw him in person, one of those Ravenclaws in choir who thought he might grow up to be a singer or something. To Neville, he always seemed a little egotistical, but who was he to judge.

With her gone most of the time, he found he didn’t really have anyone to talk to. He hadn’t even gotten a good chance to tell her what had happened between him and Draco (Neville had carefully kept him out of any of his letters and she had in turn avoided the subject as well). With everything considered and Draco’s subsequent return to being an asshole, abusing his position as Prefect to push around everyone who got in his way - he figured she must already know something had fractured between them. 

Ginny waved at him in the halls and sat beside him at breakfast, but other than that, she was gone. 

These days it seemed all his friends had very little patience for him. He focused on schoolwork - which he found much more difficult in his O.W.L year, especially without a tutor - and any extra time he had, he dedicated to his Mimbletonia and tending to the greenhouses. Sprout seemed thankful to have him around more often again, but a little concerned as well. She often tried to push him out of the greenhouses, telling him he needed to spend more time socializing with humans instead of plants. But he always rolled his eyes and stayed put, and she couldn’t help but enjoy his company. His whole life he’d grown used to only having his elderly relatives to talk to, and in some way he was just more comfortable talking to older people. Sometimes he thought he might secretly be an old man stuck in a teenager’s body. His life would make a lot more sense then.

  
  


Hermione had mentioned a few times that they should have Harry teach them instead of Umbridge - just in off-handed comments in the common room as she slammed shut her new ministry approved Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. When she actually told him they would be having a meeting at the Hog’s Head to discuss the logistics of some kind of study-club, he almost didn’t believe her. 

Word had gotten around a bit and Seamus kept trying to remind Neville and Dean what a “self-absorbed prick” Harry must be to make a fan club for himself. So when the Hogsmeade trip rolled around, they had to leave him at the Three Broomsticks.

“So you two are taking  _ his _ side I see?”

“This isn’t about sides, Seamus,” Dean chided him, “This is us taking control of our education when our teacher is deliberately failing us.”

“Sheep,” Seamus grumbled into his butterbeer, sinking lower into the booth he inhabited alone.

Neville and Dean shrugged to each other and headed out towards the shabby little bar at the far edge of the village. As it was the less populated side of town, it was quite obvious that the little groups of students following behind were going to the Hog’s Head for the same reason. It definitely wasn’t for the stale butterbeer in the dirty mug Neville now fidgeted with in his hands as he sat with the other twenty or so students who had showed up for the meeting. 

He felt a little bad for Harry, who was sitting right across from him at the table. It looked like he had been dragged into this by Hermione and Ron and that he’d rather be anywhere else right now. Truth be told, Neville was a bit scared of him nowadays. With his short temper, it was nearly impossible to know what might make him lash out. The last thing Neville wanted was to make things worse for him.

But by the end of the meeting when everyone seemed to have the same interests in mind - that they needed a real teacher if they were going to try to fight back against You-know-who. And who better to teach them than the person who had fought against him and survived at least three times? All they needed now was somewhere safe to practice spells without Umbridge butting her nose in and shutting the whole club down. 

There were a few suggestions of the library or some empty class they could borrow, but they were all too public, Umbridge could walk in at any time. They needed somewhere secret, hidden. And Neville had a horrible realization that he knew the perfect place. But he didn’t say anything. He was really, really, really hoping that someone else would come up with somewhere they could go. Over the summer he had vowed to himself that he’d avoid the Room of Requirement at all costs. But it seemed the fate of their club mattered more than his personal comfort.

After he had written his name down on the parchment paper, he waved to Dean to go back to the Three Broomsticks without him. He was hoping to catch Harry, Ron, and Hermione without everyone else. As they were packing up their bags, they noticed him shuffling his feet off to the side.

Hermione acknowledged him first, “Is there something you need, Neville?”

“Um…” Part of him was still worried they might ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, “Well… if you’re still looking for some place to hold meetings, I think I know a place that might work.”

“Brilliant,” Harry exchanged a glance with the other three, “Where is it?”

Neville took them to the seventh floor of the castle, ignoring Ron when he kept reminding him that students from other houses wouldn’t be able to come inside their common room, and that they should just rule that one out. After a few wrong turns, they made it to the blank stone wall, opposite the tapestry of ballet dancing trolls, and Neville had to think exactly what they needed right now. 

Every time he had wanted to come to this room in the past, he used the same feeling of wanting to hide, to disappear, and over the course of two years the feeling had mingled slowly with the memories he had made inside, making it easier to bring to mind exactly what he needed from the room. But now the feeling was all gone from inside of him. He was struck with a worrying panic that he wouldn’t be able to get inside anymore. That he’d brought the three of his friends all the way up here for nothing.

He felt Hermione place a hand on the back of his shoulder, “It’s okay Neville, we can find somewhere else.” He forgot he had just been staring at a blank wall.

At once, he shrugged her hand off of him and began pacing beside the wall, trying to think to himself.  _ Somewhere safe. Somewhere we can learn to fight. Lots of space to practice.  _ At some point he had screwed his eyes shut in concentration, opening them only when he heard a few gasps. The door had appeared, only now it was larger, with intricate designs made of iron interwoven across the front. 

He followed the other three inside, marveling at the space. It was completely different from the room he had stayed in last year. There were bookcases, but they were lined across the walls, leaving a wide open space in the middle for training where large silk cushions lay scattered. There were arched windows at the far end, but they were fogged up and impossible to see through, but perfect for letting the sun in as the only other light source came from dim chandeliers overhead, leaving sparkling fragmented reflections around the room. 

And across the room along the opposite wall were scrawled two names in black chalk. They were hard to make out and Neville was sure they were only visible if you knew where to look, but if one were to examine it closer there would be no doubt it was his name right beside Draco’s. 

Harry clapped a hand on his back, “This is perfect, Neville! How did you find it?”

Neville gulped. He was in the process of opening and closing his mouth as Hermione broke in, “Wait, I’ve heard of this place. A room in Hogwarts that changes its form to fit whatever might be needed… Of course! The Room of Requirement! This must be it!” She rounded on him, “Neville, I didn’t know you read Hogwarts: a History?”

“I skimmed it,” He suppressed a cough. 

Ron gave him a nudge and a grin, “Rather lucky you fell onto this chapter, then, eh?”

Neville managed a smile back. As the others moved around marveling at all the trinkets lining the shelves, planning out their use of the space - Neville inched towards the far wall, trying to stand in front of the inscriptions drawn into it. He was wracking his brain, trying to think of some spell that might help him, but he was blanking. He finally just decided to use the back of his heel to rub off the chalk, looking down he could see there was nothing more than black smudges left and he felt a sigh of relief course through him.

Anticipation grew over the next few days leading up to their first meeting. Neville wasn’t sure why he felt more on edge than usual. It wasn’t like he was scared of under-performing in front of his friends. He was already used to that. But still, he found his heart beating faster whenever he remembered that they were all in on something secret, that they were going against Umbridge - and by extension - the ministry. It was exciting. And terrifying. 

He thought of his parents more often than not when he was feeling particularly anxious. It calmed him to think that if they knew he was working to fight just like they did, that they might even be proud of him. He gripped his wand closer to him these days, reminding himself that this was once his  _ father’s _ wand. That this wand had seen war, fought off death eaters, had lived a life before Neville came along. It was a daunting thing to carry when he was a young wizard. But now it felt like some kind of protection, a talisman of sorts. If anything, it felt as if it was his duty to live up to his father, to make sure he was carrying on his memory. He was going to make them both proud, even if they weren’t able to acknowledge him for it. 

Yet still, there was a jittery rush of energy just waiting to lash out. And it did on Monday afternoon, after just that morning notices had gone up all around school prohibiting student organizations without authorization from the High Inquisitor (Umbridge as she had appointed herself) against the threat of expulsion. Even the Gryffindor Quidditch team had been disbanded, so there was no chance in hell their club would even be considered. Harry had discreetly affirmed with some of the other members that there was no way they were stopping now. If anything, this proved all the more reason that they needed to be ready for whatever was thrown at them.

As he followed a few steps behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, descending down the stairs into the dungeons for their potions class, he kept having to wipe his sweaty palms on his robe when his hands kept slipping from their grip along the stone walls. He tried focusing on his breathing, staring at the holes in the back of Ron’s trainers. But there was no way to drown out the oh-so familiar drawling voice echoing from down the hall. 

“It’ll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor’s team is allowed to keep playing. I mean, if it’s a question of influence with the Ministry, I don’t think they’ve got much chance. From what my father says, they’ve been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years. As for Potter, my father says it’s a matter of time before the Ministry has him locked away with the other lunatics down in St. Mungo’s - ” 

Blood pounded in his ears as he heard the snide laughter coming from all the Slytherins. Before Neville knew what was happening, he was pushing past the three in front of him. In just a few short strides, he was at the end of the corridor, his hands finding their way into the mossy green hood of a robe, seizing Draco against the stone wall. 

It felt he was watching this all happen from afar, like someone else was doing it. He heard his own cracking voice dimly over the commotion of shouting and hands trying to pull him away, “ _ Shut up. Shut UP! Don’t you EVER-!” _ He was out of breath, cursing, not even really knowing what he was saying. But he was seeing red and staring down at Draco’s pale, horrified face, in the shadow of his looming figure. 

It was over as quick as it had happened, Ron, Harry, Crabbe, and Goyle, all prying him from his hold on Draco. Just in time too, as Snape’s droning voice caught his attention, snapping them all apart and taking points away - from Gryffindor only, of course. 

As calm settled once more, Neville shook off Harry’s last lingering hand from his shoulder, picking up his bag that had fallen to the floor, and filing into the classroom after everyone else. The rest of the hour seemed to pass by like the spiraling contents of the Strengthening Solution in his cauldron. The look on Draco’s face kept surfacing in the potion below. It had been the same look when he’d been beaten down by that hippogriff. He honestly kept wondering if he hadn’t just imagined the whole scenario in his head - if he had fabricated the texture of his pristine robes curled between his fingers, the weight of him pressed against the wall, his own incandescent face reflected back to him in pearly eyes. 

The only evidence that anything happened were the whispers following after him in the halls and the common room, portraits gossiping behind their painted hands. In the Great Hall he kept feeling a steely glare landing on him, and every time he looked out of the corner of his eye, he saw the split second as Draco dropped his eyes back down again. Neville felt a lump of guilt settling in his throat, making it impossible to eat. 

“ _ He should be the guilty one, not me,”  _ He thought to himself, admitting defeat and heading to bed early that night. He just wanted to forget about it. 

The first D.A. meeting the next day couldn’t have come sooner as he climbed up to the seventh floor. He was just glad to have something else on his mind. Though, it was strange seeing all of his friends in the Room of Requirement. The design of it had changed but it still held the same stale air he had grown so used to. But he was glad he was erasing Draco from the walls. This place wasn’t for him anymore.

When all the cushions on the floor had filled up with people, Harry told them to split up into pairs. Neville, of course, naturally turned to Dean, who he found had already linked arms with Lavender, giving him an apologetic smile. Ginny was with her boyfriend. Ron was with Hermione. He looked around the room a little frantically and he watched as everyone else paired up. He knew he should be used to this by now, being the last to be picked, knowing he’ll always be second choice - it didn’t make it hurt any less as he felt his face heat up, looking at the floor.

“Have you got a partner?” He heard Harry ask. Neville shook his head.

“Good, I think Luna over there needs one,” He pointed over to the girl with dirty blonde hair, staring dreamily up at the chandelier above her. 

Relief rushed over him. He blinked and nodded again before walking over to her as Harry began giving instructions to their first lesson in the Disarming Charm. She regarded him with a far away look, a delicate smile, turning her attention back elsewhere. Neville couldn’t help but steal quick glances over at her, who didn’t seem to notice Harry speaking at all, rocking back and forth on her heels, staring at the other people. 

He’d met her on the train ride to school but had seen very little of her after that. He knew she was some sort of friend of Ginny, but apparently not enough to be seen hanging around together. Even then, he had recognized her vaguely from seeing her skip by in the halls. He could even hazily remember when she used to wear the boy’s uniform. Sometime between the years she had switched to the girl’s uniform and Neville supposed he had just never noticed. In any case, she seemed more comfortable now.

Harry finished his speech and looked to everyone else to begin practicing. Neville nodded to Luna, “You go first.”

She blinked at him as if she hadn’t heard and slipped her wand out from behind her ear, flicking it lazily, “ _ Expelliarmus!” _ But the spell missed and hit the bookshelf behind him, blue sparks flying and a flutter of pages falling. She didn’t look disappointed in the least, a twinkle in her eye, “Your turn.”

Feeling a little more confident knowing his partner hadn’t been able to do it right the first time, he snapped his wand sharply, aiming at her still outstretched hand. But nothing happened. No sparks, nothing. He tried again, stabbing his wand harder at the air, shouting, “ _ Expelliarmus!” _ But still, nothing. He felt embarrassment creep over his skin, turning his ears red. 

It was just then as Harry was making his rounds and helping other students that he came up to him and Luna. “You’re making your wand movements too quickly. They’re a little violent,” He was chuckling, “You want to make sure you’re being precise with it,” He guided the movement, holding onto Neville’s forearm, “It helps if you don’t bend your elbow so much.”

“I’ll come back to check on you two later,” Harry was already moving to help Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet.

Neville nodded to Luna again, “You go.”

She refocused herself and easily sent his wand spinning out of his grip. He gave her an encouraging grin, “Nice one!” And went to find where his wand clattered off to. 

When he got back to her, he wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, hoping the wand wouldn’t just slip out of his hand when he tried the spell again. He aimed, “ _ Expelliarmus.” _

Her flaxen hair prickled up, but nothing else happened, “I think you're mumbling the spell a bit. Try saying it like it’s not an accident.”

He had no clue what that was supposed to mean, but he took a few deep breaths, pointing and saying again, clearly this time, “ _ Expelliarmus!” _

And just like that, Luna’s wand as sent flying out of her hand, grazing past one of the glass ornaments hanging from the chandelier. But she was beaming brighter than any of the crystals above and Neville felt his breath catch. 

\--

Draco didn’t have the time to worry about what Neville, or anyone else, thought of him. Maybe he did regret what he had said in the dungeons. Maybe he wished he  _ had _ just shut up. But another part of him, deep down, knew he had done it all on purpose. He had seen Longbottom shambling along behind the other Gryffindors. He knew he could hear him clear as day. Draco wanted him to hear, to look at him, just for a moment. To make him stop ignoring his whole existence, like he was some shameful memory to bury away. 

Even if it meant garnering his hatred. It wasn’t like he didn’t hate him already. The least he could do was acknowledge him, glare at him, anything. He never expected Neville’s sudden outburst, the back of his head connecting with the sharp wall behind him, leaving a bruise that lingered for days. 

Well, he got what he wanted didn’t he? So why was it when he stared at the canopy above him every night, seeing the outline of his face, the look of utter loathing and detestation burning in his eyes, Draco was left with a hollow, empty feeling?

Late night patrolling the halls with Pansy, she detailed exactly how she’d knock Longbottom’s teeth in if he even looked his way again. He ignored the whispers in the Quidditch locker room. _Wimp._ _Puff. Milksop._

With Flint finally graduating last year, Montague stepped up as captain, Adrian Pucey had been added as a chaser, and Crabbe and Goyle had both become beaters. The last two hadn’t really been much of a surprise. They were both as tall as they were wide, (he was always acutely aware they shared a similar stature to Neville) but they carried themselves as if they were sharks, always looking for something to take a bite out of. And they fit in with the team better than he ever had, laughing at all their jokes, joining in the impromptu wrestling contests, prattling on about which girl off the Gryffindor team they’d rather snog. Well, it was usually more derogatory and suggestive than that, but he’d never dare repeat what he heard.

When they all found out Ronald Weasley had been added to the newly reformed Gryffindor team, they knew that was the weak link to strike. In the week leading up to the first Quidditch match as he did his prefect duties, he managed to come up with  _ Weasley is Our King _ , even enlisting Pansy and Blaise to create badges with the title on it. There was a vacant feeling of pride at seeing the whole Slytherin table wearing the crown shaped badges the morning of the game, and later on as half the stands were chanting the song he’d written, just to taunt Gryffindor’s poor choice of a keeper.

It even seemed to work. Weasley kept letting the Slytherin team score like he had planned to do it on purpose, but from the pale look of horror plastered on his freckled face, it was clear he had planned anything but. He was just struck dumb by the amount of people singing his name, “WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN! HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN! WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN!”

Slytherin was in the lead when Draco finally caught a glimmer of the golden snitch whizzing by. He dived down after it just as Potter had done a millisecond before him. They both pulled up to race after it across the pitch, their shoulders crammed next to each other as they each reached out to grab it. But Draco wasn’t fast enough. Potter closed his hand around the snitch until all that was left were the shining metal wings that buzzed to a stop as it was captured. 

Potter raised his arm triumphantly as the other half of the crowd, the half that hadn’t been singing, erupted with roars and cheers. Draco landed his broom behind Potter and the rest of the Gryffindor team, staring at the back of his head, curly hair, tangled and messy. They had been neck and neck just a minute ago. That snitch was as good as anybody’s.  _ He had been so close to catching it! _ He could still feel the soft brush of the metal wings ghosting over his hand.  _ He had been so close. _ Why couldn’t it have been  _ him? _ Why was it always Potter? Why was it always famous, popular, Triwizard Tournament winning, perfect Harry Potter? Potter who always got what he wanted in the end. Potter the “tortured” soul. Potter who had ruined the friendship between him and probably the only person he’d ever actually cared about. 

A hot, bubbling feeling of hate twisted in his guts. 

He watched as the whole Gryffindor team touched the ground, hugging and clapping each other on the back. Draco spoke loud enough to make sure they could all hear him, “Saved Weasley’s neck, haven’t you? I’ve never seen a worse Keeper- but then he  _ was _ born in a bin…” It was like flipping a switch. Turning on the faucet and letting every ugly mean thing he could think of come pouring out of his mouth. It was something he had grown proud of as a kid, being able to come up with nasty remarks, witty retorts. He hated how easy it was to let it out of him again. “You like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter? Spend holidays there and everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by Muggles even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay. Or perhaps you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it.”

And that was the final blow that set Potter off. Him and one of the freakish twins rushed at him, pummeling him to the ground in a heap. The back of his head collided with the hard earth, cracked knuckles connected with his nose, a punch still gripping tightly onto the snitch knocked all the air out of him. White stars bloomed across his vision, his ears ringing out as he could faintly hear shouting, shadows that had blocked the sun were pushed off of him. 

He lay there for a short while, the taste of copper in his mouth and a trickle of blood dripping down his chin, a heaving wheeze resounding inside him, sun blinding him to tears. It was then that he knew there was something wrong with him.

There was a dull sense of satisfaction he got the next day when he heard Potter and the twins had been banned from ever playing Quidditch again. He’d even been pulled into Umbridge’s office to thank him for his “ _ bravery _ ” or something like that. Pansy wouldn’t let him out of her sight now, asking him constantly if he was alright. He received a letter from his mother and father the following Monday, which he left unopened and unread, handing the basket of sweets off to Theodore.

But for the first time in so long, he caught Neville’s lingering eye in the corner of his vision. He knew he had a bright shiner casting a greenish-purplish ring around his eye and a split lip that kept reopening every time he chewed at it absentmindedly. He knew he looked like shit. So why’d Neville have to keep staring at him? Was this what Neville wished he could have done down in the dungeons? If Potter, Weasley, Crabbe, and Goyle hadn’t been there, would he have done this to him?

\--

Winter came creeping before long. Harsh winds covered the mountains and forests and castle in a thick sheet of snow. It was strange how loneliness made time go by faster. There were some days where Neville didn’t talk at all. He almost made it a game to see how long he could last in a day with no one speaking to him. More often than not the streak was broken when Dean asked him something about their homework or Professor Sprout asking him to get her something from across the room. 

It was different on days when the D.A. club had a meeting. He was always partnered up with Luna now, since they both had trouble finding other partners, but that was far from a problem. She never made him feel bad for not getting a spell right on the first try, or even second, third, or tenth time. She was patient and kind and offered advice when she had it. Over time, he even seemed to get the hang of it all. It took practicing even after their meetings, committing the wand movements to memory, muttering the pronunciations under his breath trying to get it just right. It took all the determination he had left in him, but eventually he was able to get the spells down and performed almost as perfectly as Hermione.

Even still, Luna might have been one of his favorite parts of their D.A. meetings. She’d go on talking about funny sounding creatures he had never heard of, and for all he knew did not exist - but he really didn’t mind. In fact, he kind of admired her for being able to talk about all the things that interested her. He almost never talked about plants and herbology with anyone really besides Professor Sprout. Anytime he had tried to bring it up in a conversation with his friends, he could watch as the interest slowly died in their eyes until they got bored of him completely. It got so terrifying he just slowly stopped talking about it at all. 

But every week at their D.A. meeting, Neville felt more and more like he could tell Luna anything. And after so long of being on his own, each Wednesday night felt like heaven. For two hours he felt normal. Like he belonged somewhere. He only wished they had more time together. She sometimes sat at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, but she was a year younger and didn’t share any classes with him. 

Not to mention he was too afraid to ask her to spend more time with him. He had no idea how to ask that question. Was that a normal thing to do? Ask people to talk to you? It felt desperate and weird to ask, especially since he hardly even knew her. So instead he cherished those moments they had together and kept his daydreams to himself.

During their last club meeting before winter break, Harry insisted they practice the spells they already knew since there wasn’t really time to learn anything new. They all partnered up, throwing around the impediment jinx and waiting for the spell to wear off before switching places. And all the while, Neville couldn’t stop staring at the pair of earrings Luna had on - orange beads arranged on a wire like a radish with green strings pluming from the top. They kept tangling through strands of her thin wispy hair and he had a strange urge to untangle it for her. He didn’t, of course.

Once the second hour was up, Harry called for them all to stop, wishing them a good holiday as people started leaving in groups. Neville was just out the door, waiting for Dean, when Luna waved to him, “See you next year!”

She had just turned to follow the other Ravenclaws when something flared inside Neville, a burst of courage. He hurried to catch up to her, “Wait!” He accidentally knocked into Zacharias Smith, who cursed him out a bit, but he kept running till he was by her side.

She turned to look up at him, eyes wide but a faint smile still curling at her mouth. For a second, he didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t seem to mind waiting. 

He took a breath, “Would you-? Um… maybe we could write to each other over the break? I-I uh… I really enjoy talking to you and hearing what you have to say so… Since we only get a short amount of time to talk here… I’d really want to know more about the Snorkacks and uh… Nargles and stuff... and it’d be easier just to write it all down… um. If you want to?”

Her expression hadn’t changed and she was still looking at him like he hadn’t said anything, and for a terrifying moment he was worried he hadn’t even said anything at all - only imagined he had blabbered that all out. But after a few moments, she bobbed her head, tilting to the side, “Okay… What’s your last name?”

They exchanged addresses, using the pen Neville had in his bag to write them on their arms. He said goodnight before turning towards the Gryffindor tower, floating a little on his feet. 

He went to bed early, deciding to put off his homework for tomorrow morning. As he drifted off to sleep, listening to Dean and Seamus quietly arguing, he was writing a letter in his mind, turning it over and over thinking of what he could say to her, he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about all the plants in the greenhouse and even the ones he had growing in the garden back home. He wanted to tell her about the movie he had seen over the summer and ask her if she’d ever watched one too. He wanted to know what kind of music she listened to- did she even listen to any- did she like any kind?

He only realized he had drifted off to sleep when he was woken up by a piercing scream in the middle of the night. It seemed the rest of his dorm mates had heard it too, and they were all staring at Harry, twisted up in his sheets like a cocoon, whipping his head from side to side, visibly in pain. Ron was by his side trying to wake him up, holding Harry’s shoulders to keep him from actually hurting himself against the wooden frame of the bed. When his eyes finally shot open, he turned over the side of the bed, puke splattering across the wooden planks.

Neville had to look away, a feeling of queasiness filling his stomach, “He’s sick. Shouldn’t we get someone to help?”

Harry kept trying to tell Ron something, but Neville could only grasp a few words here and there, “Your dad…. Attacked…. Blood everywhere.”

“I’m going to get McGonagall,” Neville’s voice shook and he ran out of the room, rushing down the stairs and out of the common room to get to her living quarters. It was only down the hall from Gryffindor tower and he rushed across the cold stone tile, realizing he hadn’t even put on his socks or slippers and hoping he wouldn’t trip and fall on anything. He made it to her door, knocking rapidly on the wood. He was out of breath, doubled over and heaving, nausea creeping back into him, making him knock again a little louder this time. 

From inside he heard her shuffling towards the door, light seeping from the cracks. When the door finally opened, her hair was twisted up in a bun, grey strands of hair sticking out in every direction, “Do you have  _ any  _ idea what time it is, Mr. Longbottom?”

He spoke between deep breaths, “Professor… It’s Harry… He had a nightmare… He’s sick… Threw up.”

She didn’t question him any further, both making their way back up the tower quickly, though Neville fell a little behind, already winded. When they made it to Harry’s bedside, he was sitting up, rushing to tell McGonagall the dream he had apparently had - seeing Ron’s dad bitten by a snake - that they needed to hurry to save him. He was speaking as if it had actually happened, insisting they get help. McGonagall was listening, not quite understanding either, but she took Harry and Ron to the Headmaster’s office anyhow, urging the other three boys to get back to sleep.

Silence filled the room again as the door shut once more, the stillness amplifying the creaking footsteps that drifted further away. 

He barely heard Seamus’s mutter, “Told you he was crazy...”

Neville immediately grabbed his pillow and chucked it at his head.

His shocked face was illuminated by a strip of moonlight, clutching the pillow, “The hell’s gotten into you!?”

Neville threw his other pillow at him, landing on the floor beside Seamus’s bed. He was so mad and frustrated that he didn’t even know what to say. He got back under his covers, bringing them up to his nose and laying his head flat against the mattress, too prideful to get out of bed and grab the pillows back. 

The last few days of term flew by with only a potions test to worry about. He barely found the time to study but he seemed to pass Snape’s standards with only an indifferent glare in his direction. 

Ron and Harry didn’t come back after that night. And the rest of the Weasley’s had disappeared home too it seemed. It didn’t help the uneasiness he felt inside of him, but it at least gave proof that Harry had been right to worry.

It was a small hope he had kept that he might be able to sit next to Luna on the train, but even after almost an hour of searching, he found her nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t imagine the awkwardness of sitting in a compartment with Dean and Seamus, and instead found an empty one to himself, watching the white landscape blur beyond the window. 

It felt good to come home for Christmas. Neville loved putting up their plastic tree (Gran forbade a live one as it left pine needles everywhere) and while Gran baked cookies in the kitchen, he would hang the stringed lights and ornaments, glittering in the reflections of the lit fireplace. At the bottom of the box of decorations lay the Angel, a porcelain doll that was probably five times older than Neville, dressed in silk and lace, golden hair braided atop her head and bathed in a halo. Her wings were plush and iridescent, showing purple and blue and pink when the light shined on her. When he was younger, his Grandad used to pick him up so he could reach the top. After he was gone, Gran just did it herself with a flick of her wand. But now he was tall enough and he eased the Angel up on her throne, flattening out her dress gracefully over the tops of the branches.

Christmas day, they woke up early and went straight to St. Mungo’s. His grandmother mostly chatted with the nurses anytime they were there, discussing his parents health or politics or catching up with how their family was doing. Neville always volunteered to feed his parents breakfast - he found he enjoyed rote tasks that let his mind wander. It was nice enough just to see their faces and feel like he could do something to help in some way. 

When they had finished their meal, he reached in his pocket and grabbed a Drooble’s bubblegum for his mother to chew on, helping her unwrap it, but leaving the paper on her tray for her to give back to him. 

He felt his grandmother’s gloved hand at his shoulder, “Neville, dear, it’s time to go.”

He wanted to ask to stay, just until she noticed the wrapper and put it in his hand. But he knew his grandmother would find that a silly reason to stay. He stood up from his chair and grabbed his coat.

“Merry Christmas, mum,” He kissed her on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, dad,” He kissed him on his forehead.

He took one last look before following his Gran’s green velvet dress towards the exit of the ward when he heard a familiar voice call out to him, “ _ Neville _ !”

He couldn’t help but jump, his nerves colliding in on himself. No one ever yelled like that in this wing of the hospital. Especially not  _ his  _ name. When he raised his eyes to look, his stomach dropped. There was Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, all very real and all staring at him as if there was nothing wrong at all. There was a part of him that was glad to see that they were all okay and in good spirits. And there was another mortifying feeling that they’d ask who he was visiting. He didn’t want the whole school knowing...

“Friends of yours, Neville, dear?” His grandmother had already gone on to introduce herself to them, shaking each of their hands in turn, probably talking about him as well, but it was all lost on Neville. He couldn’t hear over the rushing of blood in his ears, feeling his whole face turn red. He could only stare down at his shoes. He never realized how he had gotten so used to hearing her talk about him as if he wasn’t even there, catching only the last of her sentence and holding back an eye-roll, “...He’s a good boy, but he hasn’t got his father’s talent, I’m afraid to say.”

“What?” He heard Ron say, “Is that your dad down the end, Neville?”

“What’s this?” Gran turned on him, “Haven’t you told your friends about your parents, Neville?” 

He found it harder to breathe, it felt like the room was spinning. He managed to shake his head as he stared at the ceiling. He wanted nothing more than to disappear right now. 

“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of! You should be proud, Neville, proud! They didn’t give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!”

“I’m not ashamed,” He hated how small his voice sounded. He  _ wasn’t  _ ashamed. He just knew people would look at him differently if they knew. And he knew there  _ were  _ people who would make fun of him for it. 

He hated the way Hermione and Ginny clapped a hand to their mouths as his grandmother told them what had happened to his parents. How they were tortured. He couldn’t look at them, wishing for a miracle, to melt into a puddle and sink through the floor, anything to be anywhere but here. 

And just then he heard shuffling from behind him, his mother was behind him, offering him something. “Again?” Gran said, sounding slightly weary. “Very well, Alice dear, very well — Neville, take it, whatever it is. . . .” 

She dropped the gum wrapper back in his palm, her long nails scraping his skin gently. She didn’t look at him as he thanked her, turning away and back to her bed, humming monotonously. He closed his palm around the paper, looking back at his friends, waiting for them to laugh - but was met instead with sad looks of commiseration, which almost felt worse. 

Gran gave her goodbyes to his classmates and he followed her out the door, stuffing the paper in his pocket. As soon as they got home he ran up to his room, adding the wrapper to his collection in his sock drawer. It was filled to the brim by now with an assortment of different candy wrappers. Part of the enjoyment came from all the wildly different colors that spewed from the drawer as he reached his hand through the wrapper pile. 

As soon as his fingers grazed against something metallic, he knew he probably shouldn’t have done that. He drew back his hand, watching as a blood bloomed from a tiny cut on his finger tip. Neville frowned, wincing as he swiped the drop of blood away with his tongue, reaching back into the drawer to see what had cut him. Careful to avoid the sharp end of the pin, he closed his hand around the metallic backing, pulling it out. 

His heart sank a little. It was the ruby-eyed lion brooch.  _ You know they’re probably just rhinestones anyway _ , he thought to himself. He looked out the window at the world covered in snow and had an idea.

He laced up his boots, stepping out the back door, out into the garden, trudging out into the empty white field behind the house. His shoes sank into the thick layer of snow with every step until it came up to his knee. When he reached the middle of the field, halfway from the house and the line of trees on the other side, started digging away at the snow with his hands. When he reached the frozen soil below, he chipped away at it with his boots until he made a small crater in the dirt. 

He knelt down, dropping the brooch in the pit, watching as snowflakes already began to drift down to cover it. He didn’t give a second thought as he covered the lion in dirt and finally replacing the piles of snow on top, patting it down until it was a small white dome. 

Neville stared at it for a few minutes, watching the mist curling out of his mouth, pressing his freezing hands to his neck to warm them. As the wind picked up and snow really began to drift into his sweater and melt into his socks, he wrapped his arms around himself and trekked back up to the house. 

Stepping into the living room, the fire blazing and the smell of cookies greeted him like a warm hug.

“Why in Merlin’s name did you go out there without a coat on? And you’ve dripped water all over Grandad’s nice rug, I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” His grandmother had wrapped a blanket around him and placed a plate of gingersnaps in his lap.

He shoved a cookie in his mouth in lieu of an answer, “These are great, Gran.”

“I know they are,” She folded her arms across her chest, watching him for a moment. “Oh, I almost forgot-” She left the room out into the hallway before coming back with two small boxes, setting them beside him on the couch and going over to sit in her usual wingback chair. 

He swallowed what he had in his mouth, taking the box wrapped in red paper with little golden stars and carefully opened it. Inside was a brown leather bound wallet with a little card inside scrawled: “From Auntie Enid and Uncle Algie.” He heard an approving “Hmph” from Gran and figured it must be from a nice brand. 

He opened the other present wrapped in an olive green, folding open the small cardboard box to find a familiar silver watch slowly ticking away inside. 

“It was your grandfather’s. It doesn’t have much use sitting on his nightstand anymore. I figure it might be useful on days you feel like running away without telling me - at least I can tell you a time you need to be home by.”

He held the watch in his hands, wiping the glass of dust. The face of the clock was dull and not particularly flashy in any way, but it held the weight of a lifetime before him. He almost didn’t even know what to say, giving a sincere “Thank you,” and pressing a kiss to the grey hair Gran had pinned back. 

That night, he fell asleep still holding the tiny timekeeper in his palm, watching the moonlight glint off of the sliver, thinking about the layers of snow piling ever higher on the lion he had buried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind’s eye, augusta longbottom has the emotional range of carolyn from killing eve… and i live by that
> 
> https://youtu.be/RFGtfz0NL74?t=935  
> ^Link to the movie that neville watches!! It's A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1959) by Jiri Trnka!


	6. Chapter 6

It was a quiet and cold Christmas at the Malfoy manor that year. Normally there were big parties, there would be a giant pine tree reaching all the way to the double storied ceiling, covered in glittering silver ornaments, candles flickering midair, and dozens of presents underneath the tree. They’d have golden turkey dinners and cakes and pies. It was one of the few times of the year when the house felt warm despite the freezing air, when he saw his parents laughing and smiling together.

But when he arrived on the platform at King’s Cross his father hadn’t been there to greet him. He hadn’t seen him the whole holiday. With no visitors on Christmas day it was just Draco and his mother. When he finally dared to ask, she said he had gone on another one of his “business trips”. He’d been gone like this from time to time, but never more than a day or two at the most. But he was gone for nearly three weeks this time. 

It was the Saturday before he would have to return back to school when his father came home. It was nearly midnight and Draco had been blocking his ears with his pillow under the five layers of bedding, trying desperately to sleep. He could recognize from the way the voices rose in anger and quieted back down just as they reached their peak that it was another one of his parent’s arguments. Most of the time he tried to ignore them when they were like this. They were never violent, they never broke anything in a rage, and they certainly never fought in front of him, but whenever they believed he was out of earshot he would hear them fighting, which only seemed to grow more frequent as he got older. 

Maybe out of irritation or a want to see his father before he would have to take the train tomorrow, he crept out of his room and down the dark hallway to the grand staircase. Just as his mother’s voice raised again, he realized they must not have noticed him yet and he hid behind a pillar, curiosity prickling underneath his skin. 

“You come home in the  _ middle of the night _ just to tell me you’re going to be gone again tomorrow-”

“Darling, I’ve already told you, I have no say in this. It is my duty. You know this. They need me if they expect this mission to pan out.”

“What about being home with your family for the holidays? What about seeing your son who’s only home half the year? He’s going to grow up someday and you won’t even recognize him-”

“Dear, you’re being dramatic. It was three weeks. I’ll only be gone for a few more days and then I’ll be home.”

She was turned away from him, staring out the large arched window that looked out onto the lawn - snow covered topiaries and fountains bathed in moonlight, “I wish you wouldn’t have come home at all if you weren’t going to stay.”

Lucius hesitated, “Well I know better for next time, now, don’t I?”

“I don’t want there to  _ be _ a next time. You know how I feel about these… missions.”

He must have sensed her unease, placing a hand on her shoulder, “We’ve survived one war. We can make it through another.”

She shrugged out of his grip, “I don’t  _ want  _ another war. I want my family to be safe.”

He lowered his voice, speaking in a tone he used only when Draco had done something out of turn, “The only way our family stays safe is if I continue to carry out his plans. You have no idea what he would do to us -  _ no idea _ what he would do if I renounced my loyalty to him. You don’t think I want to keep this family safe? The only reason I do  _ any _ of this is to keep us safe.  _ Never _ forget that.”

Draco had been holding his breath and was trying so hard to take in air quietly but his lungs kept stuttering and he felt as though he might choke. Maybe it was the lightheaded feeling coming on, but he couldn’t even begin to comprehend what he was hearing - and yet at the same time none of it came as a surprise.

Narcissa was whispering, “ _ Now  _ look what you’ve done. You’ve woken him up.”

Draco stilled.

“Sweetheart, you can come out now,” His mother was looking right where the pillar was and he knew he’d been caught. He let out the air trapped in his throat, stepping out of the shadows and silently padding down the marble stairs. 

Though Draco didn’t come near them, his father closed the gap, engulfing him in a tight hug - which caught him off guard. When had his father last hugged him? It wasn’t something he ever did, especially not in this sentimental way, never so overly affectionate. His father took a step back to look at him, the smile on his face so oddly melancholic, “Your mother is right, Draco. You’re growing up.” 

Draco looked to his mother, hoping for an explanation of what this conversation was about, but she was just staring at the back of his father’s long blonde hair with an unreadable expression. “Draco, you know that I love you? You know that I would do whatever I had to do to protect you and your mother?”

He managed a slow nod - not liking where this was going.

“I do my best to keep you both safe, and nothing will ever stop me from fighting for you two,” His father’s hands were heavy on his shoulders, “But there may come a day when… when I’m not here-”

Draco frowned, “What?” He didn’t like the way that sounded. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go back to his room and pretend he hadn’t heard them fighting

Lucius ignored his outburst, “You need to promise me, Draco, that you will take care of this family. If something were to happen - if I wasn’t here - you need to promise you will protect your mother - your family. You’re not a child anymore. I need you to take responsibility for yourself-”

“What’s going on? Where’s all this coming from? What’s there to defend ourselves from?” Draco persisted, even though he felt he  _ knew _ why - he was just still clinging onto some hope he was wrong.

“I need you to promise me, Draco. Promise me, you’ll look after your mother - you’ll do everything in your power to protect this family. Promise me!” He squeezed his shoulder, his eyes icy and cold. 

“I promise,” He didn’t know what his father meant. He didn’t know what any of this meant. But if promising was going to appease him, he felt he had no other choice, “I promise.

The next morning his father was gone again, and Draco was almost glad of it. The train ride back to school was silent. He’d managed to avoid his friends, finding a compartment to himself and as the train charged through an empty blue world, he rested his head on the frosty window, memorizing the patterns in the microscopic snowflakes.

Later that evening in the Slytherin common room as he had been throwing a quaffle back and forth with Goyle, Millicent handed him a note. It read simply: “ _Draco Malfoy,_ _See me in my office - High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge”_ signed in swirling pink curls. 

Barely had he read it before Pansy was beside him slipping the note from his hand, “What’s she want with you?”

He tried to grab the note back but she kept it out of his reach, “No idea. Must be some prefect business.  _ Would you give that back already-” _

“Why’s she not asking for me too, then?”

“ _ No _ idea,” He finally snatched the note back. Pansy huffed and blew a stray hair from her face, looking a little disappointed. Lately she’d been trying to get a rise out of him. For what reason, he was never sure. But she always seemed let down when he didn’t go along with her playful teasing.

He headed straight out of the dungeons knowing he had nothing to fear. He’d done nothing wrong. And yet there was still a nauseating feeling in his stomach as he knocked on her door, which opened by itself revealing the newly redesigned office. 

“Ah, so glad you could join me dear. Come in!” Her Cheshire grin and artificially sweet voice greeted him, gesturing to the pink cushioned seats across from her desk. As he sat down, she brought around a steaming cup of tea with her wand, a sugar bowl floating around to his side of the table, “One or two?”

“None at all, thanks,” He didn’t touch the flowery porcelain in front of him, instead keeping his eyes focused on her. 

She gave a hearty little chuckle, taking a long sip before setting her cup down, “Did you have a lovely Holiday?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” There was that wide grin again, “Good.” She took another generous sip, quite aware she was making him wait in silence. 

She gave a dreamy sigh, “You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you in today, haven’t you?”

Draco looked past her shoulder in lieu of a response.

Umbridge set her cup down, opening a drawer and bringing out a familiar old tome. She interlocked her fingers on her desk and looked at him with faux pity, “Our cleaning staff found this in your dorm over the Winter break. Under your pillow, more specifically.”

It was the book of Shakespeare Neville had given to him last year. His heart skipped a beat and took a dive but he didn’t dare give anything away, biting the inside of his cheek. She leaned forward across the desk ever so slightly, “Is this book yours? It isn’t a part of our school library or required for any class at this school so I’m curious as to how you came into possession of something like this.” It was obvious she must know the truth by the tone of her voice, but for some reason she seemed like she was going to let him get away with it.

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“Do you know how it might have gotten under your pillow?”

“Someone must have dropped it.”

“Someone must have dropped it… under your pillow?”

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so. And could this book have been dropped by one of your fellow roommates?”

“I highly doubt it.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve never seen them read anything outside of the required texts.” 

“So you’re telling me,” She spoke slowly to emphasize the ridiculousness of the situation, “That some  _ stranger _ must have walked into your dorm room and  _ accidentally _ dropped this very heavy book _ underneath _ your pillow by mistake?”

He shrugged, disdain seeping into his voice, “Weirder things have happened at this school.”

She was blinking, smiling at him, wrinkles piercing into her skin, “Well then. You won’t mind then of course-” She picked the book up from her desk and stood, crossing to the fireplace and gently tossing it in, flames roaring and licking at the pages. She wiped her hands across her skirt before sitting back down, “That takes care of that!” 

He was shocked enough he didn’t think to keep quiet, jumping a little in his seat, “Why did you do that?”

An innocent expression smoothed across her face, “I see we’re forgetting Educational Decree Number Forty-six. All literature written by non-wizards is banned from the premises and since the author was a muggle, I simply can’t have something like that lying around.”

_ But it didn’t have to be burned _ , Draco wanted to say,  _ There was no reason to destroy it. _

But instead he thanked her when she dismissed him. He walked back to his common room. And he went to bed, trying to pull fragments of sentences from his memory, disjointed lines he kept reciting in his head. But the words were all wrong. He couldn’t remember them right.

\--

It was early the next morning as Neville sat down at the Gryffindor table when an owl swooped over him, dropping a baby blue envelope on his plate. He smiled a little to himself, recognizing Luna’s cursive on the front, spelling out his name in spirals. Ever since the holiday they had been sending each other letters back and forth, this one marking the fourth he’d received. 

They were something for him to look forward to, the process of reading her nearly illegible handwriting in the glittery orange ink she used, and then getting to respond to each of the questions she had asked about him. They were nonsensical things - asking which flavored drink he preferred or which species of tree he would want to be - just weird questions no one else in the world would ever care to know about, except for her. And that’s what made it so nice talking to her. And he found he liked reading her own answers to the questions even better than listing his own. Her answers were always so vague, going off on anecdotal tangents in between and she would mention things he was fairly sure didn’t even exist. Even still, it brought a spark of light into his otherwise very dull and bleak winter.

He snuck the envelope in his book bag to read later and picked a piece of toast from a bread basket in front of him, just as the seventh-year sitting across from him got up to leave, and he noticed they had left a copy of the Daily Prophet on their side of the table. Gran had cancelled their subscription, so he hadn’t been able to read (or at least hear Hermione reiterate) the news the past few weeks. He glanced up and down the table to make sure no one else was vying to take it, and inconspicuously reached over to grab it, flipping it to the front page.

He regretted his action almost instantly. In bold letters at the top of the page read:  _ Mass Breakout from Azkaban  _ and lined in rows along the page were the faces of the escaped prisoners, leering at him. And there, in the third row, was the familiar gaunt face, upturned nose, black unkempt hair, eyes ringed in shadow - Bellatrix Lestrange - smirking up at him, at  _ him. _ She was looking right at him, like she knew he was there, knew he was terrified and sick to his stomach. He wanted to run. 

Instead, he folded the paper over, taking in a deep breath, and ignored the shaking of his hands. He finished his breakfast and went to his classes. And every D.A. meeting after that, he focused harder than he ever had before, more determined to master every jinx and countercurse Harry threw at them. Each day he would practice the spell they were learning, murmuring under his breath and committing the wand movements to memory. Then at their weekly meetings he would quietly swell with pride as he would successfully perform each spell second only to Hermione. And at night he’d stay up well past midnight finishing the mountains of homework his teachers piled on him. And finally, when at last he crawled under the covers, he’d fall right right asleep, ignoring all the bruises from falling over in D.A. meetings, ignoring every fear he had of Death Eaters sneaking into the castle.

After one of their Friday night D.A. meetings Neville was getting ready to leave, brimming with joy that no one had been able to catch him off guard when they were practicing shield charms, and also relieved he could put off the pile of essays in his bag for tomorrow, knowing he would get a full nine hours of sleep that night. Just as Neville had waved to Luna as she followed two other Ravenclaws out of the room, Harry placed a hand on him, “Hang back a second would you?”

All at once he felt like he was sinking. His heartbeat quickened, as in small groups, the rest of the D.A. members filed out of the room, sneaking off to their dorms. Neville tried to seem patient and calm. Why did he get the feeling he was about to be told off? Like Harry was going to say he was failing and he couldn’t be in the club any longer?

_ No _ , he tried to reassure himself,  _ I’m just as good as everyone else. Better, even, sometimes. And besides, Harry wouldn’t do that. He’s my friend. _

When finally they were finally alone, Harry gave him a comforting smile, pulling something from his pocket. He unfolded a photograph, handing it over to him, “I figured you deserved to see this too.”

There were whitened creases crossing over the sepia toned faces, like a class photo, and he immediately locked eyes with a couple in the front. A woman with short cropped hair and a round face, and a man just a few inches taller, with handsomely combed hair. His parents must have been in their early twenties, as he could tell his father had grown a thin beard and his mother had a silver piercing in her nose. Neville couldn’t help but smile a little bit thinking of how his Gran might have disapproved of the nose ring.

“This was the original Order of the Phoenix,” Harry pointed to a couple towards the back - a young red haired woman next to a bespectacled man with wild black hair, just like him. “Those are my parents back there.”

Neville had never heard that name in his life. “Order?”

Harry frowned a little, “The Order… Back during the first war, Dumbledore created a team of people to fight against Voldemort … Did your grandmother never tell you?”

His heart beat even faster and he shook his head. 

Harry didn’t seem to know what to make of that, giving him a look of sympathy. It was a look he was used to by now, ever since Christmas Day in St. Mungos. Ginny and Hermione had taken to giving him the same look every once in a while. Ron seemed like the only one who didn’t do well with conveying sympathy, only seeming slightly uncomfortable if he was ever left alone in the dorm room with him. 

Neville went back to studying the photograph. There were a dozen other people too. Neville could only recognize a few. Like Alastor Moody, the real one, but with thicker, less gray hair. And there was Professor Lupin, much thinner, standing arm in arm with a man Neville had seen so often in the newspaper. But he was younger, healthier, and more charmingly handsome.

“Is that…? That’s Sirius Black… He was-  _ He _ was in the order too?”

“Still is,” Harry said fondly, looking down at the photograph.

Neville opened his mouth, trying to form a question that would explain everything, but he couldn’t find the right words- or where to start with the question. He knew there were plenty of things Harry kept secret from him, but it really was strange during those brief moments where he was allowed a glance through the glass between them. 

“He’s my godfather. You probably remember him from all the things The Daily Prophet used to say about him but…. Well, none of it was true obviously,” Harry couldn’t look away from the beaming face looking up at him. “He’s the closest thing to family I have.”

Neville blinked down at the photo again, “The Order… is still active? So there’s people out there getting ready to fight back - like we are?”

Harry smiled. Neville always liked his smile. 

  
  


\--

  
  


“Have you noticed any of your peers… conspiring in any way?”

“What do you mean, professor?”

Pansy and Draco had been called in to Umbridge’s repulsive pink office, and Draco had half a mind not to even go. If Pansy hadn’t been there to drag him along, he might not have found himself there next to her in the plush floral chairs in the first place surrounded by mewling kittens on decorated plates.

“High Inquisitor, if you please,” She corrected Pansy. “And I mean, have you noticed any unsanctioned organizations? Any particular groups of students congregating against school rules?”

Pansy looked to Draco before shrugging and shaking her head, “None that we’ve noticed, ma’am.”

Umbridge smiled widely again, crinkling her nose, “Let me ask this in a different way. Are there any students at this school you find particularly suspicious? Any person or persons who always seem to stir up trouble? Any at all?”

Draco had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. It was clear what she wanted from them. A reason to expel Potter. And he knew Pansy wouldn’t hesitate on the opportunity.

“Oh Professor - I mean -  _ High Inquisitor _ , I know exactly who you mean,” Pansy had leaned closer to the desk, a smile washing over her. “Potter and his two freaky friends are always messing everything up at this school. Honest. If you weren’t around, the castle would be in complete  _ chaos _ this time of year.”

“Is that so?” Umbridge was leaning forward as well, “And do you think you would put it past him to be forming some sort of… alliance with other students in order to turn them against the law and order that I am trying so diligently to keep? A group of well known miscreants in this school?”

A look of understanding came over Pansy’s face, “Oh absolutely.”

Umbridge sat back, satisfied, humming a bit to herself. Over the next few weeks, Umbridge kept regularly calling Pansy and Draco into her office for tea and more importantly so she could try to glean any information from them. Pansy was more than willing to talk for the both of them, sharing gossip on other classmates directly to Umbridge. 

The visits to her office only intensified after Potter’s little stunt with the Quibbler, giving an in-depth description of Diggory’s death and a list of supposed Death Eaters - which of course held the name of Draco’s father as well as the last names of some of his closest friends. Draco supposed he’d never really wondered if their fathers were like his as well. It would make sense of course, seeing as how all their parents seemed to be good friends, even before he was born. But he assumed that was just because they’d been friends during their time at Hogwarts. Maybe they had been. 

Then he kept wondering about Theodore, Vincent, and Gregory - wondering if they had known all along. They had all joked about things like that. But that’s all they had been. Jokes. After the Quibbler article had arrived at the school and the consequent banning of said article, it was all anyone talked about. And even the three other Slytherins seemed to be a little on edge. From the way they talked to him about it, it seemed like news to them. Lies, of course, because that’s all Potter seemed to do these days anyway. Anything to get the press to notice him. And Draco went along with that idea too. Because it was a safer thing to believe. That Harry Potter was just a traumatized kid who’d been manipulated by people like Dumbledore into believing the boogeyman was real and alive - that he needed the attention and chose to lie to the only magazine left that’d print his face on its cover.

Because the alternative would confirm all of Draco’s fears. And he still wasn’t ready to believe in that.

Since the Quibbler article seemed to spark a new rage of fire inside Umbridge, she met with Pansy and him more frequently, even asking for them to bring along friends that they considered responsible and trustworthy. Friends like Theodore, Vincent, and Gregory. The tea visits to Umbridge became little meetings of their own as more and more Slytherins were entrusted in her ring of respectable students. The Inquisitorial Squad, she called them, but they weren’t allowed to make it obvious to other students that they were working for her. Not yet.

Instead they were tasked with seeking out students who seemed suspicious, like they might be conspiring against the Educational Decrees, and finding information on the student, following them around and memorizing their schedule, making sure to note if there were any times when they were missing or in a large group with other people outside of class hours. 

It seemed a little stupid, really, to Draco, since nearly all of the students they were supposed to monitor came from other houses, and were therefore untraceable after they returned to their common room. But he did as he was told. Of course he was given the task of following Potter around, the last person he wanted to think about, let alone manage a spare parchment, noting his every move. By March, he had a good chart of his classes, where he went after each class, which staircase he went up, which corridor he took, who he went with, and what times he usually left the Great Hall and back into his common room. The only oddity he found in his schedule was when, twice a week after dinner, he would retreat down to the dungeons to Snape’s office. Draco could only assume he had detention, especially since they both seemed to be more hostile than usual during Potions. Every day as he noted from afar that Potter had returned to his common room, he was content to leave it at that. There were no secret organizations, no secret meetings - and if there were, what did it matter to him. Frankly, he didn’t want to know. It would only give Potter that much more infamy and attention, and he was determined not to give him any more of it. 

Until he realized that if Potter really  _ was  _ a part of some conspiracy, no doubt Neville had joined too. The thought was chilling. And what was more, he realized that if that were true, there was the possibility that Neville had given up their secret, that he had given Potter’s group the perfect hiding place.

He found himself one evening outside the corridor with the tapestry of Barnabus. But right where the door to the room should be, there was just more plain expanse of the wall. He did everything he used to do, walking past, visualizing what he needed to see, and no matter how hard he tried, there still was no door. Which meant there was almost certainly someone on the other side, wanting to keep him out. 

And just then, ancient wood materialized through the stone, iron workings scraping into place. 

Draco panicked, forgetting everything and rushing to hide behind a statue in an alcove a few metres away. As he stilled himself, the door opened, and a head popped out, glancing up and down the hall. One of the prefects from Hufflepuff. After a moment, he and two other students came out and headed towards the staircase. In two’s and three’s, every thirty seconds or so, more exited the room, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws. He could report them all for meeting outside of school accepted clubs. He  _ should _ report them to Umbridge immediately, it was his job, what he was sworn to do. No doubt this was all Potter’s idea, another way for him to take a little power trip. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Neville exited the room following Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown, but he couldn’t help but feel paralyzed in his crouched position behind the statue. Somewhere in him he knew it was inevitable, he knew there was a slim chance that anyone else could have found the Room of Requirement if Neville had not told them about it first - and yet he couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal gnawing away at him. This place was supposed to stay a secret. Their secret. 

Then again, they weren’t friends anymore. There was no promise binding them anymore. Neville could do whatever he wanted. He probably expected Draco to do the same. 

But in the coming weeks, Umbridge kept getting closer and closer to figuring out the truth. She pressed on the Inquisitorial Squad to keep track of their targets, even after they had returned to their houses, making sure they stayed there until curfew. It didn’t take long before it was realized that some of the people they had been tracking were all mysteriously heading up to the seventh floor on the same days at the same times and then disappearing before reappearing headed back down to their house just before curfew. It was only a matter of time before they pieced it all together.

He spent the days between in painful deliberation, lying awake at night staring at the canopy above, plucking strands from the feather of his quill in class, staring at the ground as he walked the halls - wondering if he should just tell Umbridge, if he should warn Neville, if he shouldn’t do anything. What he found interesting was how much easier the walk was, plodding along the grass, blinking against the sunshine before pushing open the foggy glass door of the greenhouse.

He knew Neville would be in at this time of day, and sure enough, there he was, repotting something that looked like a moldy and extremely spiky pretzel. When he looked up to see who had come in, the clodded dirt fell from his hands, the plant falling sharply into the pot. 

Sprout, who was working on another identical cactus opposite Neville, frowned a little when she looked him over. She had never particularly liked Draco, which was to be expected. He never gave her much reason to like him to begin with. He supposed he had a hard time feigning interest in Herbology. 

“What is it? Is there something you need, Mr. Malfoy?” Sprout spoke shortly. She never hid her distaste for him, which he always found strangely endearing. At least she didn’t try to hide it like a lot of the other teachers did. He appreciated honesty far more than diplomacy.

“May I borrow Longbottom for a moment?” Draco put on the officious tone he had perfected over the year, “I have a few questions I have to ask him. Prefect business, and all that.”

Sprout waved her hand nonchalantly giving Neville a stern look, “Don’t take long, these need to be rooted down and pruned as well.”

Once Draco had gotten Neville outside, taking him across to a little shady spot behind a tree, his throat became rather dry and he found that all the words he’d been repeating to himself had suddenly disappeared. When had Neville gotten a haircut?

“What do you want?”

Draco took a breath. “Umbridge knows about Potter’s little study group.”

He squinted down at him, “What are you on about?”

“She knows. She’s looking for any excuse to get rid of him. She doesn’t have any proof right now, but she’s getting closer and I don’t know how much longer I can divert her attention away from the seventh floor.”

“How did you… I mean- What do you mean? Nothing’s going on in the seventh floor,” He was stammering.

“Neville. Please. You’re a terrible liar.”

He turned red, looking a bit frustrated with himself unable to meet his eye, “You think she knows?”

“I  _ know _ she knows,” Draco considered telling him about the Inquisitorial Squad, but he felt a strange pang of guilt, not wanting to admit his part in finding him out, “She knows Potter’s trying to rally more people against her. Now, it doesn’t matter whatever it is you all are really planning. Either way, she’s going to spin it into some sort of extremist plot against the ministry and she’s going to do whatever it takes to throw Potter out of school. I don’t even care if that  _ is  _ what you’re all doing, but I figured someone should at least tell you before you jump off the bridge behind him.”

Neville twitched, “Harry isn’t  _ making _ us do anything.”

Draco met his cold eyes with the same icy glare, “Look all I’m saying is… I’m just telling you, you need to find someplace else to do your meetings or you need to stop them altogether.”

Neville narrowed his gaze, “Is this-? Is this because I told them about the Room of Requirement?”

Draco scoffed, “I couldn’t care less about that broom closet. I was only trying to warn you-”

“I don’t need you to look after me,” Neville stood up straight, an inch taller than him. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not worried about  _ you _ . But I know each and every one of those people, and I know none of them will be too pleased if they’re stuck in detention for the rest of the year.”

“They knew the risks when we set out for this.”

“Take my advice _. _ Stop the meetings. Follow the fucking rules so you don’t get yourself or the people around you in trouble.”

Neville opened his mouth to retort but Draco had already turned and walked off, pressing forward and trying his hardest not to look back.

\--

It was the last meeting of the D.A. before Easter break, when Harry felt he had held off on teaching them the Patronus charm for long enough. Silvery wisps took to form, shaping snouts and tails and wings and hooves all around the room, lights playing along the ceiling and galloping through the air.

With Harry’s instructions reverberating in his mind, Neville stood there, wand outstretched, fumbling through his memories, trying to think of the last time he felt truly happy. He tried to think back to childhood, the days he spent with his grandad in the garden or listening to music. But the most vivid emotion that came back from those days was an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. He rarely ever had playmates over and he was stuck at the house most of the time. One of the only distinct memories he had as a child was the stomach-churning sensation of falling off the pier in Blackpool, the chill of the ocean trying to pull him down.

He heard Harry’s voice from behind him, “You’ve got to think of something happy,” 

“I’m trying!” He snapped.

_ Happy. Something happy _ . The memory of lifting Draco up into the air - holding his hand and looking at the stars - fireworks crackling before their eyes - colors and lights flashed behind his eyes but he didn’t want to think about it all anymore. It just left him with that empty feeling in his chest again. Instead he tried to think of Luna. Luna made him happy. But he had no specific memory he could tie to her, just a feeling he couldn’t describe, a vague sense of belonging. Last year, at the ball with Ginny - he was happy then. He shut his eyes trying to remember her face, pink and sweaty, her hair in a tangle, the way she smiled up at him, her red eyelashes catching the light. 

“ _ Expecto Patronum!” _ He dared to open his eyes. Still nothing. He looked to Luna who had managed to produce a silvery white hare, hopping around her ankles. 

She glanced back at him, “You’ll get it eventually. Keep trying.”

He knew he must’ve been whining by now, so exhausted from trying to think, “Well what memory were  _ you _ thinking of?”

She let the patronus dissipate into fragments of light before it disappeared completely, “My parents and I used to go sledding every year on the hills around our house. One time, we hit this giant rock and we all flew off of the sled and tumbled down the rest of the way.” Luna had that distracted look in her eye like she was recalling the memory and she gave a far off smile. An image of all three Lovegoods falling onto a pile of snow came to mind and Neville couldn’t help but smile a bit to himself as well. “You’re thinking about it too hard. Just remember the feeling and the memory will come to you.”

His whole life, Neville had always felt like there was something wrong with him. But now it seemed to really turn its ugly head toward him. How was it this hard to recall a time when he was happy? Looking around the room, it wasn’t too much trouble for any of his peers. Even Harry, whose life was wrought with loss and hardship, was able to cast a patronus more powerful than anyone. So theoretically, Neville should have at least _ one _ happy memory floating around his brain. There had to be something. Anything.

Every memory he touched inside his head - every memory that should have been happy, was always tainted by some layer of fear or sadness, loneliness. It was infuriating. He was gripping his wand so tightly, he felt it might snap. He just wanted to hit his head against the wall until one happy thought fell out of it.

_ One happy memory _ . He tried to think backwards. What  _ would  _ make him happiest? What moment  _ would _ be the happiest thing he could think of? 

His parents recognizing him. The thought was immediate. Without question. He could even  _ see  _ it happening, he’d dreamed about it so often. One day he would walk into the hospital ward, and they would both be standing there, smiling at him, and he could see in their eyes that they knew him. And they would smother him in hugs and they’d all cry, but it would be the happiest moment of his life. 

“ _ Expecto Patronum!” _

Before he could even open his eyes, he heard a pounding at the door. And so had everyone else in the room, all turning to look. Neville’s eyes did a quick headcount over the room. Every member was already here. No one outside of this room should even know of its existence. That is, except for one person. Again, there was a thunder crashing down from the other side of the wall. 

Someone grabbed ahold of his hand. He looked down, trailing it up and seeing Luna, for the first time since he had met her, scared. He didn’t think that was possible. He had assumed she wasn’t afraid of anything. Another pounding at the door and he became very aware of how sweaty his hand was. He squeezed her hand tighter.

\--

After personally handing Potter off to Umbridge, Draco and the rest of the newly appointed Inquisitorial Squad blocked the entrance to keep the rest from leaving. Out of the glaring crowd, he could feel Neville’s stare piercing into his skin, but he chose to focus on the changes in the décor, looking anywhere but him. The place looked more like a sparring room than a lost and found, all of its charm gone.

“Look at this!” Pansy, towards the far corner of the room, peeled a scroll from where it had been attached to the wall, bringing it over to the rest of the squad, “They wrote their names down to make it easier for us! How thoughtful!”

There was no reason to keep them here any longer. With their names plainly written down it was evidence enough to get them shut down. Draco directed teams of two to escort the deviants back to their houses, feeling no sense of satisfaction knowing he had been right - that he had warned Neville of this, that this all could have been avoided if he had just listened to him. There probably wasn’t anything Draco could have said to make him listen.

It wasn’t until the next day that the avalanche hit. Dumbledore, confessing to being the creator of the self proclaimed “Dumbledore’s Army” and conspiring against the ministry, escaped arrest in a daring stunt that not even the rumors flying around school could reconcile. Umbridge, then, naturally assumed the role of Headmistress in his wake and made the Inquisitorial Squad official, complete with a tiny silver “I” to pin on their robes.

And it wasn’t long after that the Weasley twins lost their damn minds, setting off fireworks right before Easter holidays - and then the Monday after, conjuring a swamp, hopping on their brooms and hightailing it out of school. It was a mess. And Umbridge of course pushed the Inquisitorial Squad to work harder at quelling any of these types of rebellions from starting up in the first place.

He was met with cold stares in the hallway, from even his own house. He focused on his work, on school. Exams were coming up soon and he planned on getting perfect scores. And there were the career advice meetings to worry about - brightly colored pamphlets advertising different areas of work a young witch or wizard might be interested in. 

“I don’t know, _ I _ think I could be a pretty good healer. I have a cousin who works at Mungo’s and she says it’s easy, only the hours are terrible. But my mom wants me to get into wandmaking. Apparently there’s good money there but-” Pansy groaned from behind a pink pamphlet, “That sounds so boring. I think I’d go nuts.” 

Draco had read all that the pamphlets had to offer before heading to his appointment with Snape, but he read nothing he didn’t already know. Sure there were ‘grand opportunities’ in this department, and a ‘bright future’ with another - but it meant nothing. He already had a future ahead of him and he didn’t need a pastel piece of paper to tell him so. 

He gave a knock of courtesy to the door which was already open, a sign hung on the front showing the schedule of meetings for the month - his own name written out beside today’s date, four o’clock. And if he had been paying careful attention to the time he should be at least a minute early as the Potions Master had always valued punctuality. 

Snape remained one of the few teachers he genuinely respected. He was one of his father’s closest confidantes, all throughout his childhood he remembered his visits to the manor or when his father would let Draco join them on visits to the Ministry or errands in Diagon Alley. Out of any of his parents’ friends, he enjoyed Snape the most. He was painfully awkward at times, he never smiled, and he especially didn’t seem to know how to interact with children, but his dry humor and quick wit had always fascinated him. Unlike any of his father’s other friends, he never laughed too loud or drank or made a fool of himself. Snape held every quality Draco admired, and he only hoped someday he could reflect the same cool demeanor. “Mr. Malfoy,” He acknowledged him in a distracted drawl. 

Draco sat down on the chair opposite his desk, waiting patiently for the Potions Master to finish marking up an essay, and from the amount of red ink scrawled across the parchment, it was a failed essay at that. After he dipped the feather pen back into its well and curled the pages back into its scroll, setting it to the side and giving a quiet sigh, he folded his hands, finally regarding him.

“I trust you’ve taken the opportunity to read the pamphlets.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any enlightenments?”

“The ministry has nothing better to do than print hundreds of copies of the same blinding yellow brochure.”

“Anything else.”

“Sir… I just don’t really see any point in a career.”

There came the rise of the Potion Master’s brow, “Oh?”

“Well it’s not like I need the money. I figure I could just… take after the manor and everything,” Draco was reminded of the talk he had had with Neville just a year ago on the subject and he was flooded with an odd sort of nostalgia - one that felt like a great empty room, like something was missing from it.

“So you believe seven years of teaching will have been for nothing?”

“Not necessarily-”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a housekeeping class, though of course I could always relay your wish back to your father and we could transfer you to a school with your interests in mind. Perhaps the Leaky Cauldron is hiring.”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh, “Sir, my apologies, but you’ve taken me too literal.”

Snape gave a thin smile, “A career isn’t just about money, Draco. It’s meant to allow one to follow their passion, their… motivation for life. Are there any subjects… any areas of study that have interested you over the years?”

He really had to think about that, “I suppose I’ve always enjoyed your class.” 

“You’d make a fine potioneer if you focused your study.”

“But what then? Just brew and sell potions for the rest of my life?”

“There are organizations who work to experiment new forms of potion making. Although an ancient craft, there is still much we do not know - or rather, that the general public does not know. There are plenty of textbooks long overdue for a revision to account for the advances made in the past century. And of course… there will come a time when Hogwarts will need someone reliable to take over as Potions Master.”

Draco’s eyes flicked up in bewilderment, “Me? A teacher?”

“It is an option, if you are so inclined,” Snape replied, “Though I understand if the idea of teaching is not as… glamorous to you.”

“Well it… it’s just something I’ve never considered,” Remembering his days of tutoring Neville - had he really been a good teacher then? Surely there were more qualified people for that type of thing. “Professor, may I ask… what made you want to be a teacher?”

There was a far off look in his dark, sunken eyes, “The position was… recommended to me.” His jaw was fixed and Draco got the distinct impression this was not something he should pry into. Of course he knew the rumors of Snape being a double agent, spying on Dumbledore to report back to the Dark Lord. What with his taciturn, elusive nature, Draco had always half-believed the lies. Perhaps there was some truth in them after all. 

“Whether or not you choose to pursue a career in potion-making, it would seem prudent for you to excel in the core N.E.W.T. classes, in case you happen to change your mind later on in life.” He brought a parchment into his hand, glancing over it, “You’ve been able to maintain an ‘Outstanding’ in every subject you’ve had so far - with your projected O.W.L. scores there wouldn’t be any trouble getting you into the classes you wish to take next year. I would recommend Potions, of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology-”

“Herbology?” Draco grimaced.

Snape raised an eyebrow, “It is important for a potioneer to understand the properties of the ingredients required for any given potion. Though it is your choice. You could just as easily take History of Magic instead.”

Draco nodded solemnly, residing to his fate with another year of Professor Binns. 

“If you have no more questions, you may leave,” He stood from his desk, and Draco did the same, “I hope you have found this conversation... illuminating.”

As Draco left, shutting the door behind him and making his way back to the common room, he realized that most other Heads of Houses would have told their student to come to them if they had further questions - but knowing the Potions Master, there must have been nothing he had dreaded more than all the career conferences he had left. 

\--

It was an overcast Saturday in May when Ginny dragged Luna and Neville along with her out on the grounds. She kept saying she had something to show them, but only if they followed her far enough away from the castle. To Neville, it just sounded like a way to get in trouble, but he found he really didn’t care. It’d been the first time in a while he had been able to hang out with Ginny after being so preoccupied with Michael. Lately it seemed she was getting a little annoyed by how clingy he was. Not to mention how reluctant he had always been to fight against her in their D.A. meetings. 

They walked along the perimeter of the lake, terrorizing a flock of geese that honked and flew off across the water - and trailed through a sparse stretch of the forest that opened up to the lush hillsides that overlooked the castle. Ginny only stopped to sit once Neville had practically begged her, face red and heaving. He took off his tie and sweater, not caring if they were dirtied in the damp earth below as he used it to sit cross-legged on. Luna, who had only been wearing socks on her feet (her own shoes had mysteriously been stolen, a common occurrence apparently), chucked them off, and laid back against the grass, her wild hair spreading around her like a pillow. 

Neville, still breathing harshly, relishing in the cold breeze sweeping over the hill, finally asked, “So you’ve brought us all this way, now d’you mind telling us why?”

“Well I had to be certain no one else would know,” Ginny rummaged in the small shoulder bag she held in her lap, “Didn’t want the frog lady to find out and confiscate it.” 

She found what she was looking for, holding it out for Neville to look at. It was about the size of a pocketbook, made of a thick blue plastic with buttons running down its spine. Through a little window he could see what looked like two shiny eyes staring back at him and above the window was the word “ _ SONY _ ” and below “ _ WALKMAN _ ”. 

“My dad has been a little obsessed with muggle technology as of late. Well, more so than usual. He nicked this a few years back from one of those-” She spun her finger around in the air, trying to find the word, “-Television shops.”

“You mean your dad  _ stole  _ this?”

Ginny grinned, “Cool, right? He told me he used to do it all the time when he was younger. A bit of a klepto I guess. Anyway, it infuriates mum to no end so he has to keep it all hush. He knows I can keep a secret though, so I’m the one who gets to keep all the neat shit he finds.”

Neville still couldn’t get over the fact that it was  _ stolen _ . By Mr. Weasley, no less. He never thought adults - parents - would ever want to steal something. Neville had never met the man, but now he really wanted to. In fact, both of Ginny’s parents seemed like comfortable people to be around. A kind but firm woman who spent her time knitting sweaters for all her children and their friends - and a man so fascinated by muggles he would even commit petty crimes to learn more about their technology.

Ginny had fished out of her jacket pocket a mess of black wires she untangled to reveal two mushroom-like pods at the end. She plugged the wire into one of the holes on the side of the box, sticking one of the pods in her ear and handing the other to Neville. He copied her, putting the pod in his ear as she clicked the button on the side with a triangle engraved into it. The eyes behind the little window began spinning as a dreamy shoegaze tune floated through the earbud, a harmony that echoed and lyrics he couldn’t quite make out.

He let out a breath of air, marveling as every tense muscle inside him relaxed all at once. Ginny smiled as she watched him and gave him the other earbud so he could hear it in stereo. It was better than anything he’d ever heard - having the music so close, being able to pick out each particular instrument, he could close his eyes and imagine he was somewhere else, washed over in a wave, the world beyond growing silent.

When the song had ended and a new one had started to filter in, he remembered where he was, opening his eyes again to see Ginny plucking blades of grass out of the ground and piling it onto Neville. When she noticed him, she began to speak but he couldn’t make out the words. “ _ What _ ?”

She shook her head, taking the buds out of his ears, collecting the small machine back, “Well, was it worth it? Coming up all this way?”

He shrugged, smiling and nodding, as Ginny let Luna take a turn, showing her how to use the earbuds. They both watched as her eyes lit up, her hands covering her ears to keep the wires in place, and staring off into the distance.

A silence fell on the two of them as they turned their attention to the castle, watching specks of owls circle the Astronomy tower. And then Ginny spoke up, her arms around her knees, “Sorry we haven’t talked much lately.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” He reassured her.

“We’ve barely even seen each other since the last D.A. meeting,” She said wistfully, “What I wouldn’t give to have those evenings back.”

Neville nodded along. He’d been daydreaming often of some way to bring the club back together - to find some other secret place for them all to hide away in. To have the days back when they were all hopelessly exhausted, trying desperately to recite an incantation properly, the feeling of pure joy at finally getting it right. And that last night had only been Seamus’s first meeting after months of Dean coercing him, of him finally making amends with Harry - only to have that night be their last all together. 

“I’ve just been…” Ginny let out an exasperated sigh, “You know how Michael is. He keeps thinking I don’t like him - or that I don’t like being around him. Or that I don’t like his friends or something.”

“Well… do you?”

“They’re a little boring.”

“Can’t be more boring than me,” He smiled.

She gave a playful punch to his arm a little harder than necessary, “You’re not boring, don’t say things like that.”

He rubbed at the spot that would surely bruise later, trying to believe she was right. Ginny looked back at Luna, who was lying down again, eyes closed, “I’m glad you two became friends, though.”

“Me too,” He said.

There was a twinkle in her eye, a knowing smile.

“What?”

“Well, I was just wondering if… you two were… y’know…”

“If we were what?”

“... Have you asked her out on a date yet?”

Wind shimmered across the fields of grass like waves in a green sea. Neville knew his whole face must’ve been red by now. He tried stammering through an appropriate answer but no real words came out. 

“It’s alright!” She was stifling a giggle, “I get it. I didn’t mean to spring that on you like that. I was just curious. You two just seem like you understand each other.” 

It wasn’t like he had never considered it - the idea of them being more than friends. But Luna never seemed interested in that sort of thing, at least not with him. And he didn’t mind. 

“We’re just friends,” He managed to say, hoping she didn’t notice the embarrassed crack in his voice.

“Alright,” She smiled again, and he hoped that meant she would leave it alone for now.

And then, Luna had sat back up, removing the buds from her ears, “This song’s too loud. How do you change it?” 

Ginny moved over to help her, showing her which button to press down. Eventually she settled behind her, deciding to braid her knotty blond hair which ended up even more tangled, bits of dried grass messed in - but Luna didn’t seem to mind. And for a while there was nothing but the soft breeze, a crow passing by - a whirr of black. Neville had found a ladybird roaming along the leaf of a daisy and watched as it traversed across the back of his hand. It wasn’t until the winds had changed direction, clouds rippling across the sky, and stretches of sunlight flooded over the landscape, that Ginny spoke again, “Oh shit, wait Neville. what time is it?”

The ladybird flitted its wings and flew off as he tilted his wrist, checking his grandfather’s watch, “Twenty after three.”

“Shit,” She stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans, “I was supposed to meet Michael.”

Neville stood up with her, “Oh, sorry. We’ll walk you back.”

Luna chimed in from where she had been trying to do a handstand, which ended up looking more like a toppled bridge, “I’ll stay here.”

Ginny was waving her hand at Neville for him to sit back down, “Yeah it’s alright I’ll go back by myself. I’m not really in a big hurry anyway. You guys keep the Walkman - Neville, just bring it back to me later. See ya.” She was already trodding back down the hill.

Neville and Luna shouted back their goodbyes before the silence returned. At some point Luna got tired of rolling around and lay still on her back. Neville kept looking over towards her, unsure of whether this was the time to talk or to be quiet. Eventually she just patted the grass beside her and he laid down, taking the earbud she offered to him. 

“I saw something come out of your wand that day, by the way.”

He barely heard her over the music, taking it out of his ear for a moment, “H-huh?”

“Your patronus. It was non-corporeal, and only there for half a second. But it was there.”

“Oh.” A wave of relief flooded him, and a bit of pride too. And a fondness for Luna - that she had felt it important to let him know.

“Were you thinking about your parents?”

He felt as if a rug had been swiped away underneath him, “My parents?” In all their letters to each other he had never mentioned them.

“Ginny told me. About what happened at the hospital.”  _ Of course. _ “She said not to tell you I knew. But if I didn’t tell you how I know, you may have thought me psychic.”

“I may have.”

When he looked over to her, she was staring at the clouds, rolling over the hills in tides, “I imagine that gets very lonely. Caring so much for someone and them not ever noticing you.”

No one had ever said that to him. He was so used to the whole ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I’m sure they’re proud of you’ routine. 

“It is.”

She hummed, “I don’t know what I’d do without my dad. He’s the best person I know. I lost my mum when I was quite young but it’s not even like she’s really gone. My dad still likes to talk about her so it seems like she’s still here.”

His heart broke a little, “She sounds like she must have been really nice.”

“Yes,” Luna said, a grin on her face, “She was fun. I can’t remember so much about her but I remember how happy she was all the time. And my dad fills in all the details I forget.”

By now the clouds had become nothing more than patches stitched across the sky, the sun beaming across the land in full force. Despite the threat of the Inquisitorial Squad and O.W.L.s, it seemed as though no one was giving up such a beautiful day. Faraway shouting came from the Quidditch pitch, the lake rippled as students swam against a blue sky, and every so often a yellow or white butterfly would flutter by.

“Do you think they’ll last till summer?” Luna mused.

“Oh I’m sure. I usually see butterflies around till September at least.”

“I wasn’t talking about butterflies.”

Neville looked over for an explanation.

“Ginny and Michael,” She said.

“Oh, well um. They seem… alright, don’t they?”

She turned her face toward him, her crystalline eyes gleaning the truth.

“Yeah I suppose not,” He sighed, “It’s to be expected isn’t it?”

“Expected?”

“I mean all the… boyfriend girlfriend stuff… it’s all kind of meaningless isn’t it?”

She continued staring, the slightest curve in her brow.

“Well it’s… it’s just… they must all think they’re in love, they say they’re in love, but it’s all just infatuation,” He knew. He’d watched his friends declare their affection for someone one moment, and the next they forget about them, thinking about someone else. He supposed he didn’t have any real experience in relationships, but it seemed pretty clear from an outsider’s perspective. “I don’t think you can really love someone until you’re older. When it’s actually serious.”

“So you’ve never been in love?”

“No, of course not,” He didn’t even have to think about it. He loved his parents. He loved his grandmother. He loved all his plants. He loved his friends. But it wasn’t the kind Luna was talking about. “Love is… I don’t know. It’s too complicated.”

“Really? It feels like I fall in love everyday… with just about anyone. You’ve never liked anyone?”

“Liking someone is completely different. You’re just talking about a crush. Everyone  _ likes _ someone _. _ ”

“I think you’re complicating it too much.”

“Well, it  _ is _ complicated!”

A particularly large gust of wind blew over the hillside, rustling the trees, shaking the daisies. He watched Luna’s hair flourish around her face, twirling into the sky. She turned away from him, brushing a blonde strand away from her mouth. They waited for the wind to die down. A calm quiet resting over the hill again.

“You’ve had a crush before?” She asked.

He felt he could tell her anything, knowing she wouldn’t judge him, “A few.”

Her face was partially masked by the blades of grass but he caught her looking at him out of the corner of her eye before shutting them closed again, “What makes you like someone?”

He’d never thought too hard about it. It just sort of happened, “Sometimes it feels like I’d fall in love with anyone who’s nice to me or shows me even the smallest bit of attention... That probably sounds a bit sad, doesn’t it.”

He heard the grass around her head move as she shook her head, “What’s wrong with liking people who are nice to you?”

Neville flushed, folding his hands over his stomach - realizing there were still blades of grass stuck to his white collared shirt, and tried to brush it all off nonchalantly. As Luna noticed this, she diligently began putting the grass back on him one by one.

“Oh thanks.”

“No problem.”

The earbud kept falling out and he gave up trying to put it back in, leaving it to rest in a patch of dirt near his head where he could still hear the tinny sounding vibrations.

Luna’s voice carried softly over the wind, “I think I like Ginny.” 

Neville felt like he should have been surprised, but found that he really wasn’t. From the way she wrote about her in her letters, the way she looked at her when she talked. No one ever caught her attention the way Ginny did.

“How long have you...?”

“Since the first time we met... Maybe it was infatuation then. The feeling has sort of changed over the years. I know she likes Harry. I know she’s with Michael. It isn’t like I’m expecting anything to happen but… the feeling is still there,” Her hand came to rest on her heart.

He didn’t know what to say. So he said the only thing he was thinking about.

“The person I liked- that I used to like… he was a friend of mine too.” He couldn’t believe he was telling her any of this. His pulse jumped into his throat. He felt like he was breaking something sacred. But she stayed quiet, patiently waiting for him.

“We don’t… we don’t talk anymore. In fact I hate him most of the time now. There were things he said that I just can’t forget. But sometimes I really miss him - little things about him… Like the way he would laugh or… the way he would say hello or…” He broke off, taking a breath. He knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop. “When I look at him now I- I just feel stupid for thinking he was different. And I know- I know he doesn’t even think of me anymore and I hate that he’s taken up so much of my thoughts. I just…. I wish I didn’t feel this way. I wish I’d never been his friend at all.” 

The words were out of his mouth before he could think about them. For all the time he spent thinking about the quiet moments between them, the fragments of memories that replayed over in his head, of the two of them, moments that made him feel real, that someone could actually enjoy being around him, that they might have existed in that terrifying space beyond friendship - for all the time spent thinking of him and reminding himself that what they had was gone, he wished it had never happened at all. At least then he wouldn’t feel the emptiness in his chest. Maybe it would have been better to have gone on being lonely. 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Luna’s airy voice brought him out of his thoughts.

He frowned, “Sorry?”

“If you go through life avoiding every chance to feel something, wouldn’t you become numb? I don’t think I would want to live like that,” She blinked at him, “I don’t think you would either.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in relative silence. It seemed neither had anything more to say.

The first day of June the two of them sat together in the stands of the Quidditch pitch stadium and watched Ginny catch the snitch, and even though it meant Ravenclaw had lost the match, Luna cheered louder than anyone else around them. 

  
  
  


As exams came closer, the time they spent together became more infrequent. The piles of homework diminished as teachers were reviewing for O.W.L.s, but Neville had to study, this time without someone so diligently working with him. Hermione tried to help when she could, but she had several more classes to study for than him and there simply wasn’t enough time in the day. 

The first week of exams, he felt he did okay in Charms, Herbology, and D.A.D.A - the only one he felt unsure in was Transfiguration. But overall he had built up enough confidence in himself to try to study even harder for the second week. He’d dedicated the weekend to reading and rereading his textbooks, studying all night until the sun peeked into the common room, practicing the potions Snape had told them to pay close attention to. By Monday, his eyes were drooping and he nearly dropped his flask into his cauldron during the practical, but he felt more sure of himself than he ever had in any potions class. He only sustained a few burns from the fire-crabs in their Care of Magical Creatures exam and mislabeled Orion’s Belt on his star chart for Astronomy.

In the middle of their History exam, Harry had fallen from his desk screaming. The look of terror on his face pierced something quite soft inside Neville and he tried not to stare (as everyone around him was doing) as the ancient Professor Tofty guided him out of the room. As time ran out, he tried his best to answer as many questions as he could, whether or not he was correct. Whether or not he was finished he handed his paper in and followed the crowd of students as they exited the Great Hall, trying to work the cramp out of his wrist. 

A fresh breeze of Summer air wafted through the open entrance doors and a giddy feeling of freedom overcame him. He wouldn’t have to open another textbook for at least another few months. He could go to bed at a decent time that night. Maybe he would agree to play a game of football with Dean and Seamus like they kept badgering him to. 

But as he walked the halls, letting the sunlight stream over him from the courtyard, he felt no hurry to be anywhere. He let himself wander, silently observing the people throwing a sparkler around on the grass - a remnant of the Weasley twins’ fireworks before they escaped - making mental notes of bits of details in the architecture, noticing little things he’s never noticed before. It was the end of his fifth year and it felt as though he’d never really even seen the beauty in the castle before. He’d always been too preoccupied worrying about whether he was going to be eaten by some monster or tormented by some upperclassmen or knocked unconscious by a poltergeist. He’d always been so worried. He supposed none of those threats had ever really gone away, but he could at least deal with them a lot better now than he could as a kid. 

He was following the engravings of cherubs and angels and devils and serpents along the walls as they climbed to the second floor - when he saw half the Inquisitorial Squad standing around Ginny. In another moment he spotted Luna standing at the other end of the hall staring into space until Pansy Parkinson grabbed her roughly by the hair and dragged her over to the rest of the Squad.

“Let go of her! Don’t touch her!” Ginny shouted as Goyle restrained her arms behind her back and Crabbe wrestled her wand from her clutches. Neville didn’t even realize he was marching right up to them, a hand slipping into his pocket.

“Let go of them,” Neville pointed his wand at Crabbe’s thick forehead, hoping he sounded as brave as he felt, “ _ Now _ .”

Crabbe was holding two wands now, and still Neville didn’t feel intimidated, but the Slytherin was laughing nonetheless, “Or what? You’ll throw your wand at my head?”

“It’d be a pretty big target to miss.”

Crabbe’s face turned red with fury, raising his wand, and in the same instant he barely registered Luna calling out to him, “Behind you!”

He turned to look but it was too late. A flash of red light and his wand had been thrown out of his hand, clattering to the ground where Crabbe picked it up, adding to his collection. Neville looked behind him to see the tall looming figure of Slytherin’s Quidditch team Chaser, Cassius Warrington - and Ron, whose arm was being held in a death grip, was seething, his lip dripping blood. Before Neville’s instincts could kick in, Warrington flicked his wand again at him, “ _ Incarcerous.” _ He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He could only give a weak struggle as Crabbe’s arm wrapped around his neck, watching as the seventh year performed the same spell on Luna and Ginny. 

There was no escaping as they were dragged into Umbridge’s pink office. Neville supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to see Harry already inside, looking both nauseous and enraged, like all he wanted to do was run. At the angle Crabbe was holding him he could barely even see Hermione being crushed in the corner by Millicent Bulstrode. Or Draco, who was sitting on the ledge of the window, keeping his eyes fixed on Warrington, who was explaining how he had found Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville. 

It was hard to focus on any of the voices around him. He vaguely knew what was happening, but the binding spell was already starting to prove itself unsuccessful. He could move just enough to battle Crabbe’s arms around his neck, barely enough to breathe. Blood rushed to his head as he stared down at the rug, spiraling floral designs making him sick. 

He didn’t even know why he was here, why any of them were here. But he knew as the door closed behind Umbridge, escorting Harry and Hermione out of the room, her wand pointed at the back of their heads - he knew there had to be some way for the rest of them to escape.

“Crabbe, you heard Snape earlier. There’s no need to choke him to death,” Draco’s drawling voice punctured the silence that fell. “He’s harmless, anyways.”

_ Harmless. _ Neville wished he still had his wand. Then he could really show them how harmless he was.

“If he’s so harmless why’d we have to drag him off you that time he went mad,” Crabbe must have been referring to the incident last fall - when Neville had thrown Draco against the wall - he had tried very hard to shut that memory out. He was glad no one could see his face.

“He may be a squib, but he’s still got size on his side,” He could  _ hear _ the shit eating grin in Goyle’s voice. 

“Oh shut up already,” Draco muttered.

There were a couple chuckles around the room, but he was more preoccupied with a sharp burst of pain as Ginny stamped on his shoe. He bit back a groan, letting air out of his clenched teeth as he shot her a look. She still had Goyle’s massive hand on her shoulder, keeping her in place, but she mouthed at him, “ _ Watch me.” _

He watched her, following her gaze around the room, assessing the situation. To Neville, it was impossible. They were outnumbered, six to four - all four wandless. True, the bind and gag charm had worn off by now, but that still meant fighting against four quidditch players. 

Ginny was looking at him again, raising her eyebrows and staring somewhere behind him at Crabbe’s side. Unlike any of the others, Crabbe was too preoccupied with holding him in a headlock to have his wand out. Which meant there were three wands in his pocket, his, Neville’s, and Ginny’s. Ginny looked forward again at Draco, who was too busy twisting Harry’s wand between his hands to notice them. But Neville noticed as she kept her palm faced out towards him from where she kept it stuck to her side, as if she were still bound by imaginary rope. 

Neville continued to struggle against Crabbe with his right hand, but he snuck his left carefully behind him, making sure his reach wasn’t noticeable. Sweat dripped down his cheek. At last his hand curled around a handle. As slowly as he could manage, he pulled it from his pocket, passing it to Ginny, watching her fingers work to slide it up her sleeve in a deft maneuver. After he was sure no one was watching him, he grabbed another wand from Crabbe’s pocket - his own, he was grateful to realize, as it fit just right in his palm. That left one more wand, but there was no way Ginny could somehow transfer it over to Ron without being seen, especially from Warrington’s half nelson hold on him. 

He looked to Ginny. She was mouthing again, “ _ On three.”  _ The Slytherins were still jabbering on, paying them no mind.

“ _ One. _ ”

He felt his pulse hammering, every spell he’d learned in their D.A. meetings rehearsing themselves at the front of his mind.

“ _ Two.”  _

Her eyes fell on Goyle’s wand pressed into her neck.

“Three,” She breathed as she yanked the wand out of Goyle’s hand in the same moment she pointed her wand and shot at Draco, two wands flying out of his hands. Neville thrust his elbow up into Crabbe’s face, slipping out of his grip, sending a stupefying charm at Millicent. Just as Ginny dived behind Umbridge’s desk, Neville was being wrestled to the ground, Crabbe pushing all his weight to keep him on his stomach, and pinning his wrists to keep him from aiming his wand.

He could see Ron struggling with Warrington for control of the single wand between them and somewhere behind the desk he heard a shriek and a flutter of leathery wings. He only knew Ginny was unharmed as she emerged only to stupefy Goyle who had looked like a bull about to charge. Now he was lying face-down beside Neville.

A second of confusion gave him just the time he needed to flip himself around, but Crabbe already had his arm pinioned to his chest, working to get the wand out of his hand. Neville didn’t understand why he didn’t just grab his own wand from his pocket - but again, he figured he should be thankful. He tried kicking, he tried to twist out of his grip - nothing was working. Before he could think about what he was doing, he clashed his head into his and they both let out a howl of pain - but it made Crabbe let go at last. He stupefied him once he was out from under him and turned, throwing an impediment jinx at Warrington, slowing him down enough for Ron to swipe the wand from him, stunning him square in the chest.

Neville, Ron, and Ginny, all rounded on Pansy, the last Slytherin standing. She was using Luna as a human shield, digging a wand into her cheek, her eyes shifting between them. Luna, fortunately, didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the whole situation was more of a mild inconvenience. 

“It’s three against one,” Ron said as blood still dripped from his chin onto the floor, “Give it up.”

Pansy glowered at them, assessing her options. There would have been a tense silence if it hadn’t been for Draco, who was flailing about behind the desk, still under the effects of Ginny’s Bat-Bogey Hex, which seemed to swarm around his head. It was unsettling to hear him clawing at his face, shouting for help. Neville knew he wasn’t in any real danger, in a couple of minutes the spell would wear off and he’d be fine, save for a few scratches. It still hurt to hear him panicking.

“Lower your wands,” Pansy said - and though she put up a brave front, it was clear her voice was shaking.

Ron glanced at the other two. Neville was the first to slowly drop his arm. Ron followed. Ginny kept her wand trained on her.

Ron murmured to her, “Just do it.”

She didn’t move, still staring Pansy down. 

“Ginny,” Luna spoke up, as gentle as ever, “It’s okay.”

It took several moments for the message to solidify her decision, but eventually Ginny lowered her wand. Pansy glanced between them once more and released Luna from her hold. Pansy kept her wand trained on the four of them as she moved behind the desk, but stopped as soon as she dropped to the floor, turning her attention to Draco, trying to hold him still, assuring him that he was alright.

“Let’s move,” Ginny said as they recovered their own wands, as well as Harry and Hermione’s, before making a swift exit out of the door, “I saw them head towards the forest from the window. If we run we can still catch up.” 

Later that night, or earlier the next morning, before the sun had a chance to rise over the hills, Neville was laid in one of the beds in the hospital wing - blood still dripping from his nose. But he was alive. He was alive. His body was exhausted, his bones ached, but his mind was still racing. He could rest, watching the eggshell blue sky flood onto the ceiling, but he knew sleep would not come.

It was only an hour ago he had watched the man Harry called his godfather, fall lifeless through the ghostly veil, eyes rolling white. He had never seen Harry so pained as he had been then, as though his own soul had been ripped from his chest. The last he had seen of him he was running after Bellatrix, the one who had murdered his godfather, a shrill cackle echoing behind as she went.

He could be dead. He was probably dead. And it was probably Neville’s fault. He should have listened to Harry. He should have gone to save the rest of his friends instead of trying to play hero. Maybe then the prophecy wouldn’t have slipped from his hand, crashing down on the floor into a million pieces… Harry would never know what was inside and it was _ all because of Neville.  _ He felt a prickle of sweat in his palms, trying to imagine how he could have saved it from shattering, adrenaline still coursing through him.  _ If he had been just a little quicker, if he had reached out his hand… _

It was the same queasy feeling as he had watched his father’s wand break in two, wood splintering as it connected with the black boot of a Death Eater - smashing into Neville’s nose, a crack in the bone and blood pouring down his chin. He was still wondering how he would tell Gran. But he figured the fact he had actually tried - that he was fighting back - might help make up for it. He could tell her how he had stood up against a dozen Death Eaters, ready to give his life to save Harry.

Too many times that night had he believed he was about to die. Too many times did he believe his friends were about to die. There was nothing quite like having to carry Hermione’s limp body, desperately trying to keep track of her pulse; seeing Luna shot by a flash of light, soar backwards and fall unconscious; watching helplessly as Ron was ensnared in the tentacles of a brain, slowly squeezing the air out of him; Ginny’s head falling slack against her chest, still clutching her broken ankle. Every breath he took he was sure would be his last.

_ And Bellatrix _ . He had seen her in the flesh for the first time in his life. He had imagined the moment so many times - meeting her, speaking to her, asking her  _ why? _ Why she had done what she did. Sometimes, in nightmares, he even dreamed of killing her, avenging his parents. They were horrible dreams, and he always woke up with a sick feeling in his stomach. But nothing compared to seeing her in person, hearing her voice sink into his skin, “ _ Let’s see how long Longbottom lasts before he cracks like his parents.” _

Neville reached a hand to his chest. Through the cloth of his shirt he could feel the raised, burning skin, angry and red from where she had thrown the Cruciatus Curse. It was a pain he had never experienced before, and one he hoped he would never have to feel again - like burning hot knives trying to pierce their way out from inside him. He felt just as the spider, thrashing against the ground. In front of all of those Death Eaters he had been determined to prove his bravery, he broke down. When he finally knew what had hit him, he’d been sobbing, wailing, in front of everything he hated in life. In that moment, he had wanted to die, for the pain to end. The shame he felt in remembering that feeling was almost worse than the scar.

At last, the sun dripped its glimmering rays across the walls of the hospital wing, sparkling the dew along the windows like crystals. As he watched the sun rise, the room impossibly quiet, he felt as if he was the only person alive in the whole world.

\--

Draco found out about his father as a brief aside in the Daily Prophet. A name among a long list of names that had been arrested and subsequently sent to Azkaban to await a hearing. And he wasn’t the only one to have his father outed as a Death Eater. Both Vincent and Theodore’s fathers were arrested at the battle that broke out at the Ministry. When he set the paper down, he could feel a thousand eyes laid upon him. He could do nothing but leave the Great Hall as quickly as he could. 

The moment he stepped off the platform at King’s Cross, his mother caught him in an embrace, holding him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. It was quiet the next few weeks at the manor. A tension building, as if the roof might collapse over their heads at any moment. Draco spent his time reading the same lines over and over in his books, not taking anything in. 

His mother tried to keep the reality of the situation at bay. She baked cakes. Most of them came out burnt, but it was unnoticeable under the layers of frosting. At night, he often heard her crying, but by the next morning she had scrubbed her face clean.

The day of the trial, she kept fixing his tie, always seeming to find something wrong with it. He admired how well she kept her nerves in check in public. She kept a calm and cool exterior, never letting on how truly worried she had been. He tried to follow her lead. He tried. But his hands kept shaking. The chamber the hearing took place in was too cold and his teeth kept chattering. He felt he might explode at any moment, and he wasn’t even the one on trial. 

When the aurors finally brought his father up to the stand, Draco wished he could vanish through the floor. That man looked nothing like his father. His hair was unkempt, there were purple rings around his eyes, and his face went unshaven. More terrifying, he looked defeated. When he spoke, his voice held nothing of the distinction, the elegance, in which he had come to expect of him. He was not Lucius Malfoy.

_ That _ man was found guilty.  _ That _ man was sent to Azkaban. Not  _ his _ father.

Bright lights greeted them when they stepped out, bulbs crackled as cameras flashed. His mother squeezed his hand as they flooed back home. Home was quiet and empty. Summer glistened over the green lawns and sent birds chirping in the surrounding trees - but in the distance, there were always dark clouds coming closer, threatening the haven that surrounded them.

And then, one foggy morning, as white light crept onto his bed, his mother woke him, a hand shaking him into consciousness, “Draco. Draco, dear.”

Her wide eyes held a tinge of red, a fear she held back dutifully, “Draco… there is someone here to see you.” He was still blinking the sleep from his eyes as she took his hand, squeezing it tightly. Why did she look as if she’d seen a ghost? 

He dressed and walked down the stairs, as he might have done any other morning, wondering who might want to see him. A reporter, an auror perhaps? At times he would look back and think how naïve, how childish he had been not to know - not to have known what was coming.

He crossed into the lounge, the fireplace crackling, the air deathly still. There was someone sitting in his father’s chair. And as the someone noticed Draco’s presence, he turned towards him, a grim smile creasing his dark, snakelike eyes. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man ive been dreading writing these next few chapters. A lot of this was written or outlined way back during some bad years of highschool and ive tried to wrestle it into something not so abysmally bleak but uhhh yeah u know how it goes... 
> 
> the cruciatus curse is used in this one so warning for that! and also warning for animal death? A mouse gets eaten by a snake :( 
> 
> also some dialogue is paraphrased or ripped str8 out of the book

Even when he’d covered it with his sleeve, buttoning his cuff tight down to his wrist, he could still feel the black ink slithering under his skin. A snake twisting itself through the maw of a skull, writhing through his veins, coiling in his blood. The tattoo had been branded into his arm weeks ago, but it still hurt as much as it did the day he met the Dark Lord. A sharp, burning sensation tearing through his skin, as if fangs were piercing through the surface. He wished he’d been braver. He wished he hadn’t shown fear. He wished he could have redeemed his father, whether the man deserved it or not. 

But then, that’s what the Dark Lord had bestowed upon him. The chance to redeem their family. To give his life meaning. A purpose. To prove he was worth something. If his father were here, Draco imagined he would be proud. 

But his father was not here. He was sitting in a cell in Azkaban, the same mark blotting his own arm, the reason he was imprisoned in the first place. The mark of hatred, cruelty, and if it was supposed to represent and epitomize the wizard who dealt it, a mark of profound inhumanity.

Draco was currently sitting on a couch opposite his mother in the parlor room, the skin in his arm still crawling as he ignored the urge to seize it tightly. His aunt was pacing around the room, remarking to herself how dusty everything had become, fidgeting with the curtains and wiping a finger along the window sill. Truth be told, he’d noticed it as well. Dust and cobwebs had only accumulated after their last house elf had been set free by a certain four-eyed prat years ago. Yet for some reason his mother had ignored any notion of getting another one. And though he couldn’t stand his mother’s cooking, he was glad she abstained. Having to watch Dobby bludger himself in the head with a candelabrum or iron out his hands never sat well with his stomach. 

“ _Pigsty_ ,” Bellatrix muttered, even though she had spent the last fifteen years locked in a claustrophobic little cell on a rock in the middle of the ocean.

“Your aunt and I have been talking… we’ve been working to make sure you’re ready for… for your mission.”

“And an honor it is, Draco, that the Dark Lord has put his faith in you,” Bellatrix sat down beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, as he tried not to wince at her harsh breath in his face, “We’re so proud of you.”

“We want to make sure you’ll be prepared against anything that might happen. You need to learn to focus your mind, to shield yourself from anyone who may try to get in your way.”

“Occlumency, love,” His aunt whispered, patting him before standing back up and wandering over to the window, “I offered to teach you myself. I’m one of the best there is anyway.”

“I suggested you might feel more secure if I was to teach you,” Narcissa said, which only slightly reassured him. Draco had read quite a lot about the subject and knew just how agonizing the learning process was supposed to be. But at least he could trust his mother to keep him safe, he knew she would never allow him to be harmed. Though she had sat by and watched the dark mark sink into his skin. She had allowed his fate to be sealed. Nevertheless, he trusted her far more than he would ever trust his aunt.

“I’ll work with you every day. I have complete faith in your talent. You’re a fast learner, but it is important that you are ready before you’re sent off to school. Stand and have your wand at the ready.” He followed her orders. “You’ve grown to be quite the skilled duelist so I don’t expect any trouble attempting to block me. I’ll go easy at first but do try your best, dear.”

He nodded, trying to sift through everything he had read in the blink of an eye.

“Ready… and… _Legillimens_!” A flash and he was suddenly falling backwards into water.

_He was no more than three years old, holding his first training broom, his father helping him climb atop the seat and buckle him in. Then he was six, red faced and throwing a tantrum at his piano teacher. Another year flashed by and he was dancing with his mother under sparkling chandeliers, giggling so hard he might’ve fallen over. The lights flickered and he was out in the pouring rain, slipping and falling into a deep puddle of mud, ruining his brand new coat. From somewhere amidst the thunder and lightning he heard his mother calling out to him as he was soaked through and through._

“ _Draco!”_

His eyes snapped open and he was brought back to the parlor room, looking up at his mother and aunt. He was lying on the floor drenched in sweat, though he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

“Darling are you alright?”

He blinked hard, holding his head. A migraine was ripping through his skull and it felt as though every muscle in his body had been stretched and strained.

“Pick yourself up then, c’mon,” Bellatrix was hovering above, reaching out a hand to him, which he took, swaying on his feet. “Ready to go again?” When she raised her gnarled wand, Narcissa waved her hand to lower it.

“Let him breathe, Bella,” She turned her dark eyes on him, “Remember, you must close your mind. Don’t allow your thoughts to wander away from you. Think of nothing but your breathing… You can do it.”

His aunt rolled her eyes. He still was not used to seeing her alive and in the flesh, outside of a photograph or a painting. She wasn’t at all what he imagined her to be. She was impatient and childish, showing none of the elegant grace his mother held herself with. He couldn’t help but wonder if she had been different before being sent away to Azkaban. Had she been more like his mother? Or had she changed when she had the dark mark emblazoned on her skin? Had she always been this way? And if he held the same mark, would he too become like her - wild-eyed and impulsive. 

In the short amount of time she had stayed with them since his induction into the Dark Lord’s following, he had seen her torture a number of victims. Muggles, or otherwise people who had muggle blood in them. Even people who were supposedly on _their_ side. He had never seen such cruelty from his father. Yes, he had beat the house elf during the time they owned one. And yes, his father was not hesitant to strike Draco with his cane if he had gotten in the way or done something out of line. It was never excessive. It was never done for the amusement of it. 

Bellatrix on the other hand… To know that it was she who caused Neville’s parents to live out their lives in the hospital. And knowing that she was his aunt, his mother’s sister, a blood relative. There was something that kept him up at night, wondering hopelessly if that was to be his fate as well. A brutal murderer. That one day he would wake up and find his heart had frozen over or else vanished completely as hers must have done.

And then he would remind himself that it wouldn’t be long before he had blood on his hands. His fate had already been revealed to him. If he did what was asked of him - and damn him if he should fail - he would kill his headmaster. And why shouldn’t he? He’d dreamed of the old man’s death for years, hoping he’d choke on one of those hard candies he was so fond of or trip over the golden stars of his garishly fashioned robes. But to actually do it himself… To take down one of the greatest wizards of all time… at sixteen no less. 

This must have been his destiny. Just as Harry Potter was chosen to defeat the Dark Lord - surely he too must have been chosen to defeat Dumbledore. He was a part of something greater. These were words his aunt had whispered in his ear as the skull and snake were branded into his arm. 

“Have you closed your mind?” His mother said gently. “Are you ready?”

He stood up straight, trying to gather the courage and strength he used for every Quidditch game he’d played. Willing his heartbeat to slow down, he nodded his head, “I’m ready.” 

She bore into him with her gaze, black eyelashes beat back like wings of a raven, “ _Legillimens!_ ” 

_The spider twitching, squirming, convulsing, until a flash of light quelled the life inside, and it was curled up, dead. The hippogriff reared its ugly head and swiped down at him with its hooves. He was transformed into a ferret and suddenly the world was too large, he was sprung around, control slipping out from under him. He was drowning in a crowd, lights flashing above, colors swirling. Pansy was offering him a drink and he shouted something vile. The Granger girl sucked in her teeth and swung a punch into his gut. He thrust his elbow into Neville’s face. Potter and the Weasley twin were on top of him, hitting him hard. Neville’s hands were curled into his collar as he was backed against a wall. Neville was sitting beside him, blood running from his nose, a smile lit up in the sunlight. Neville was crying into his shoulder in the moonlit grass. He was holding onto his sweaty hands as they danced. Bursts of red and green sparks, fireworks superimposed stars across the scene. And he wanted to kiss him. And he was leaning in. And he was leaning in. And he was leaning in-_

The Persian rug greeted him as he opened his eyes, coughing, watching his own drool seep into the geometric flowers. He was shaking uncontrollably and someone somewhere had laid a hand on his back, trying to revive him. It took a minute for his mind to return to itself, like sand settling in a pond. And through the clearing mist his mother was pulling him into a sitting position against the foot of the couch, fear and worry in her face. With her so close, he could see the faint wrinkles and laugh lines hidden behind powder, illuminated in the grey light coming from the overcast sky. How much of his memory had she seen? He couldn’t have just shown her… She couldn’t have seen… Mortification sunk into the deep pit of his stomach.

Her eyes were glassy, perspiration gathering on her temple. She was silent as she stared back at him, before she calmly asked her sister to leave the room.

“Oh, Cissy, c’mon. He needs to toughen up. You’re being too soft with him. If only you would let me-”

“Out, Bella. Please,” She commanded firmly.

His aunt grumbled under her breath but he could hear her footsteps trail out the doorway and he was left in the quiet air with his mother. She helped him up until he was sitting on the couch beside her. He could feel her eyes on him, but he could only stare at the loose thread of fabric he spun between his fingers. There was an intake of breath, as if she were about to say something, but she held it and let then it go.

“Draco… I… You know that I love you? That I will always love you?” Her words were as gentle as dew dripping down a petal, “You’re my son. I would do anything for you. I would do anything to protect you.”

He knew that. Of course he knew that. And yet her words rang hollow. Was allowing a mass murderer into their home supposed to keep him safe? When she watched as a life sentence in Azkaban was carved into his forearm - was that going to protect him? 

“This boy… You can’t be seen with him. You must never let anyone know,” Her voice was just a whisper, “If the Dark Lord were to find out… If Bella knew… These people… they would believe it as bad as being born a muggle. They would not hesitate to… ” She trailed off not even daring to entertain the idea that something could happen to him.

“This is precisely _why_ you need to learn to protect your thoughts. Your intentions... I know you have lost your faith in me. And I do not blame you. You have every right to question my choices - to question your father’s choices. But above all else, I am your mother. If anything were to happen to you-”

“ _I know_ ,” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. This redundant speech was becoming a common occurrence. She faltered, the spark draining from her eye, before reaching out to hold his hand, his left hand, and instinctively he drew back, clutching his forearm in his lap. The clock ticking on the mantle had grown infinitely louder and he barely heard a soft breath escaping her. He listened to each second pass by, holding each one carefully. Perhaps a thousand moments passed.

And then she stood back up, smoothing the folds of her dress, and returned to the opposite side of the room, raising her wand, “When you’re ready.”

\--

“And you’re sure you’ve remembered everything this time? I don’t want to have to send Penelope in a week with a scarf of yours or a pair of gloves, she’s getting a bit grey in the feathers.”

Neville was pushing his trolley along the platform, listening to his grandmother worry over her vulture, and trying very hard not to crash into anyone or anything. “I’m sure. I checked three times like you asked. If there’s anything I’ve forgotten I promise I won’t write you for it.”

It was then out of the corner of his eye through clouds of steam, he spotted Luna with a man whose white hair fell down his shoulders just as hers did. It could only be her father, who she’d mentioned often in her letters and postcards from their trip to Sweden over the Summer. Neville had actually been invited along, but he knew no matter how proud Gran had been, hearing of the way her grandson fought at the Ministry - she still didn’t trust him enough to send him off to Scandinavia with the editor of the Quibbler.

With a huff, Neville pulled his suitcase from the bottom rack of the cart and scooped Trevor from where he’d been sitting, tucking his coat under his arm and begging the toad not to jump out of his hand. 

“Well I’ve seen some of my friends over there so-” He nodded off vaguely in the other direction, “So I’ll go… y’know…”

The old woman nodded sternly, looking him over one last time, “You’ve got your wand on you?”

“In my coat pocket.”

“You’re absolutely sure? We just bought it no less than a month ago. I don’t want to find out you’ve lost it already.”

“I’m _quite_ sure.”

“And don’t go breaking it either. Treat it a little more carefully than you did the last. We’re not made of money.”

“Yes I know, Gran.”

She nodded again, letting a sigh out through her nose as she stared at the argyle pattern in his sweater, “Do take care of yourself.” Gran was not known for her sentimentality, but for her this was as meaningful as a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I will, Gran.” 

He gave her a quick smile and a wave, listening to the sound of trolley wheels turning and carting off, before he headed over to the Lovegoods. Mr. Lovegood had some sort of spyglass raised, looking straight up at the arched ceilings, spinning a bit in a circle as if trying to get a better view - while Luna made sure he didn’t bump into anyone. When he caught her eye and her face began to light up, he couldn’t help the grin spreading over his face.

“Luna!”

“Hello, Neville. Dad’s just checking to make sure,” She nodded, still holding onto the corner end of his silk shirt. Neville didn’t think he wanted to know what Mr. Lovegood was “making sure” of, so he simply nodded back. 

“Can I hold him?” She gestured to Trevor. Luna let go of her father and cupped her hands so that Neville could plop the toad down for her. He wondered just how many days it’d be before the toad hopped out of his life again while he set down his suitcase and eased himself into his coat. 

“Dear, are you talking to one of your little friends?” The man asked before finally removing the spyglass, looking around dizzily before his eyes landed on him. 

“Ah so _you’re_ Neville! Luna’s told me all about you!” Neville thought he might shake his hand but instead Mr. Lovegood fiddled around with the metal in his hands, “Pity you couldn’t come with us on our hunt for the Crumple Horned Snorkack, you seem like you would have been interested.”

“I would have, very much so, er but my grandmother isn’t too keen on me travelling any more than to Hogwarts, as it is. Especially now… with you-know-who and all…”

“A wise woman,” Mr. Lovegood replied gravely, “We took every precaution we could, we don’t fool around by any means. We’ve been hearing the stories of people going missing. Folks plucked right out of their homes by the light of day. Did you hear the one about Ollivander?”

He nodded, “We were there only a day before it happened. Gran reckons I probably own one of the last wands he ever sold.”

“Really awful stuff… I’m not sure I would have felt safe sending Luna to school this year if it weren’t for Dumbledore. He’s taking this whole thing quite seriously - as he should.” An uncomfortable silence fell before Mr. Lovegood shifted his sleeve to check a watch, whose five hands seemed to be spinning in every direction, “Well… you two better shift yourselves if you want to get seats together.”

They all helped unload Luna’s trolley, and Neville stood awkwardly by as he hugged her tight and gave several kisses to the top of her head. Neville and Mr. Lovegood exchanged a wave before he and Luna carried their suitcases onto the train. As King’s Cross slowly began to slide away from the windows, they shuffled along the corridor. 

He couldn’t help but notice other students doing double takes at both him and Luna, whispering back to their friends over their shoulder. His first instinct was to believe they were being made fun of - but quickly he was reminded that they had fought alongside Harry Potter against a dozen Death Eaters only a few months ago, and although they hadn’t had their picture taken, their names had been mentioned in the sensationalized story written in the paper.

Not long down the way, they found Harry and the three of them finally stumbled upon an empty compartment and loaded in. The train passed through green hills, fading in and out of cloudy skies as they talked for a while about grades and Quidditch. Ron and Hermione finally joined them just around lunchtime, immediately delving into how odd it was that Malfoy was neglecting his prefect duties, staying in his compartment with the other Slytherins and flipping the other two prefects off as they passed by.

It was as they were theorizing why he wasn’t bullying the first years when a girl knocked on their door, handing off two scrolls of parchment to Harry and Neville, invitations to join a “Professor Slughorn” in his compartment. Neville’s first guess was that they had both already gotten in trouble somehow and this was some sort of build up to a load of detentions. Either way he had never heard of this person before and he had increasingly begun to dislike every new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher that had been appointed after Lupin and was not eager to meet the new one Dumbledore had hired.

When Harry suggested they should use his invisibility cloak to spy on Malfoy as they pass him, Neville sincerely believed he might dissolve into dust - imagining what in Merlin’s name would happen if they were discovered. Not to mention that there was no way the both of them would fit with his height. In any case the corridors were too crowded and knowing they’d be spotted immediately, Harry dropped the idea.

When they made it to compartment C, as the invitation had instructed, it was already packed to the brim with other students as well as an old bald man he didn’t recognize at all - Professor Slughorn, as he came to introduce himself as. Neville squeezed down in the seat beside a rather athletic looking seventh year, opposite Harry, as the professor introduced the rest of them. Neville almost didn’t even notice Ginny until he had pointed her out, as she had been tucked in the corner beside Slughorn and the window.

Over the course of their lunch, it became apparent that Slughorn was in fact taking Snape’s position of Potion’s master and that he was all about befriending those with relations to power, money, or fame - or rather that he was holding out hope that they themselves might one day acquire one or all of the three. In all, it was a rather dull and uncomfortable affair. With McLaggen so close beside him, he became hyper aware of every movement he made - he couldn’t even focus on the conversation as he was too busy trying to figure out what he was supposed to do with his hands, clutching them tight on the top of his knees.

“And you, Mr. Longbottom, your parents were quite skilled aurors were they not?” Slughorn turned the conversation on him and he could already feel his stomach dropping.

“Yes, sir.”

The professor was nodding to himself, his countenance running melancholic as he stared off into space, “Two exceptionally bright students. And both so… Well you don’t meet people quite like them nowadays, do you? Frank, as I remember, was one of the few who laughed at my jokes.” He was smiling out the window, “Whether it was sincere or whether he was simply indulging me I’m not quite sure but I think I’d like to believe in the former. A remarkably nice boy he was. Very thoughtful. Very dedicated.”

“And Alice,” He smiled brighter, showing off yellowing teeth. His voice seemed to strain higher in fond regard, “What a dear she was. Potions never came easy to her, you know. She really had to work hard to keep up with it, but she was never afraid to ask for help when she needed it. Most students fail simply because they don’t have the courage to ask questions.” He tutted, shaking his head. 

“Both wonderful, lovely people. A shame… what happened to them,” Sorrowful eyes landed on him and he knew his breath was racing, breaking out in a cold sweat. He wondered if he could survive jumping out the window of a moving train. “So young too… fresh out of auror training…” Slughorn recited the same old story he had heard a million times, the same one his grandmother had to tell him, the same that kept him up at night. He tried to shrink in his seat, feeling the eyes of his classmates turn on him, caught like a pinned butterfly under a microscope. 

_Great_ , he thought, _it wasn’t enough for just my friends to find out, now the whole school will know_. He could only hope it made everyone else as uncomfortable as it made him. He could only hope no one cared enough about him to repeat the story.

“Such a loss,” The professor shook his head, “One wonders what great heights they could have climbed to… what accomplishments were lost.” 

_Why did everyone speak of them as if they were dead?_ They didn’t go anywhere. They were still safe and alive. They still smiled from time to time. They were still his parents. His mother still gave him candy wrapped gifts. His father still murmured when he came near. And yet to the rest of the world they were as good as dead… just because they couldn’t work as aurors anymore? Just because they lived in a hospital? 

“And will I be having you in my class this year, m’boy?”

Neville shifted in his seat, snapped out of his thoughts, stifling the anger that had risen to the surface, “I’m-I’m not sure if an Acceptable for a N.E.W.T.s level class would be allowed…”

Slughorn’s eyebrows raised and he made a soft ‘oh’ face, “Well, in that case perhaps not. Tell me, do you play Quidditch? You have the build of a Beater, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Mclaggen sputtered a laugh at the very idea of him on a broom and he could feel a few more smiles around him. At least the tension in the air had finally lifted. “I prefer watching from the stands.”

The old man nodded, “Ah, well. Quite like myself then I see.”

When the sun finally retreated over the hills, allowing an inky sky to drape over the window, Slughorn bid them goodbye and they all filed out of the compartment. Just as they began making their way back, Harry pulled out his invisibility cloak after telling him and Ginny to go on without him, and he disappeared. 

“What was that about?” Ginny cocked her head back where Harry had been standing and Neville shrugged, shaking his head.

“Probably off to spy on Malfoy I suppose…”

“Spying on Malfoy?” She repeated.

“Don’t ask,” He really didn’t want to have a conversation about him just now. They made their way along the passage before Ginny retreated into a compartment with Dean and Seamus inside. He gave a wave to them through the window and went back to his own compartment and by the time they’d all changed into their robes, the train slowed to a stop, but Harry still hadn’t come back.

Neville and Luna stayed on the platform for a few minutes waiting, while Hermione and Ron had to help shepherd the first years toward Hagrid, but after everyone had all gotten off the train, they supposed they must have missed him in the crowd. So instead they made their way up the hill, climbed in a carriage, as she told him every detail of her trip to Sweden, about how close they had been to finding the creature.

Once they entered the Great Hall, they parted, Luna giving him a quick hug and heading off to the Ravenclaw table. Neville sat down at his own table, next to Seamus who had been eyeing him, pleading for someone to talk to, as just beside him, Dean and Ginny were whispering in each other's ears. As soon as he sat down, Seamus looked grateful, and after all the first years had been sorted, he turned all of his attention on him, discussing Quidditch through bites of roast beef.

At some point during dinner, he spotted Draco, passing discreetly through the doors and sitting at the end of the Slytherin table, busying himself with a plate of food. Seamus’s chattering droned on in the background as he watched Pansy notice Draco, getting up from her spot further down the table and sitting down beside him - questioning him, it looked like. Neville only wished the room were quieter or that he had an Extendable Ear to hear whatever excuse Draco was giving.

Not that it mattered, of course. 

And then later on, just before dessert was served, Harry entered the hall, covering the bottom half of his face with his sleeve and sitting down next to Ron and Hermione, who were separated from him by a few second and first years between them. When Harry had sat down, dropping his sleeve, there was dried blood covering the space below his nose and down his mouth and chin. Subconsciously he leaned in trying to hear what he was saying to the other two, but he just kept shaking his head, not wanting to discuss it.

Neville looked back to Draco, who was staring Harry down, a cynical smirk crossing his lips. And then his eyes met Neville’s and he wasn’t quite sure who was going to back down first. After a few tense moments, Draco gave a quick raise of his brow, a sneer flickering across his face, as if daring him. Not out of fear or intimidation, Neville gave up, tuning back into Seamus’s rundown on the current players for the Kenmare Kestrels. For the rest of the night he completely ignored the other side of the room, careful to keep his line of sight anywhere but there.

School went on as normally as ever, perhaps even easier than it ever had been. Sure these were N.E.W.T.s level classes now and his teachers expected quite a bit from him, but it still wasn’t too hard to understand the pace and rhythm of everything. Especially now that he only had to take four subjects, none of which were Potions, thanks be to Merlin. He knew it would probably upset Gran when she found out - not only was he not taking Potions, but Transfiguration neither, which pretty much cut off all chances of him ever becoming an auror. But it also meant he had more free time in the day to complete his homework and to study, which felt like a huge weight off his shoulders.

The one caveat to it all was that it was Snape teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts now. Comparing Snape to the other DADA teachers he’d had, the rest of them seemed like a walk in the park. He almost wished Moody - or Crouch he supposed - was teaching them instead. 

But he supposed something about the professor had changed with this change in subject. Everyone else was performing just as bad as he was at learning nonverbal spellcasting, so there was no reason to pick Neville out to terrorize. Instead he seemed hell-bent on at singling Harry out. Some part of him was ashamed to be grateful at this change of pace, another part of him was just glad he might survive this year without having the life of his toad at stake.

Neville had slotted himself into routine like clockwork. He went to class, finished homework during his free hour, went to his next class, ate dinner, listened to Seamus complain about third wheeling Ginny and Dean, finished his homework, and went to bed, and it wasn’t long until he was steeped in a comforting monotony. 

He had barely even noticed when October finally swept through the castle with dead leaves of red and orange and yellow. For the first Hogsmeade trip of the year, he had arranged to go with Luna, as they hadn’t been able to spend much time together since the train ride to school. However, Seamus, who wasn’t allowed to join Ginny and Dean on their date to Madam Puddifoot’s, resigned to following Neville as they made their way along cobbled streets.

Wind whipped scarves like rippling waves and Neville pulled his knit cap over his ears, watching Seamus turn blue as he hadn’t any gloves or hat on. They’d finally made it inside Tomes and Scrolls, where they were to meet up with Luna, and basked in the warmth rolling over them and the sweet smell of old books. They found her in an armchair in the corner, mindlessly pulling the stuffing out of a tear in the cushion while she flipped through some large hardback that had glossy moving images of colorful animals across its pages.

“Luna,” He said after she hadn’t noticed them standing over her. “You remember Seamus? He was there for that last night in the D.A.”

She nodded, widening her eyes, though it was clear she had no clue who he was, “Your fly is down.”

Seamus turned pink, frowning and looking down before trying to nonchalantly turn away from them, pulling up the zipper on the front of his trousers. Neville hid his laughter behind the back of his hand.

“Was that not a fashion choice?” She asked innocently enough, but a grimace crossed Seamus’s face, and he ignored the question, hurrying them both out of the door and back into the brisk air.

They wandered around Hogsmeade, watching solitary pages of newspaper crumple and snake down the street, blinking dust from their eyes, and taking shelter from the battering wind and stinging rain in each of the shops along the way. With Zonko’s boarded up due to the rising competition of Wizard Wheezes, there really wasn’t much to do and they ended up spending about an hour in Honeydukes, sitting and passing around a bag of taffy, just so they could stay indoors. 

It was just entertaining to listen to Seamus and Luna talk. He wasn’t sure at first if they were going to get along, but it wasn’t long before they were deep in discussion. For instance a conversation started about the Ballycastle Bats - turned into a question of whether or not a vampire could play Quidditch successfully - turned into a question if vampires could play any sport at all - turned into a long winded explanation of what football was. All in all, Seamus enjoyed being allowed to talk endlessly to someone who actually engaged in discussion, even when she went off on confusing tangents about conspiracy theories. It was like listening to two people from different planets talk to each other.

By the time the worker at the counter kicked them out, evening had fallen and the village was empty, as most of the students had retreated back to the castle, not wanting to deal with the cold. Either way, it was about the time they had agreed to meet Ginny and Dean at the Three Broomsticks for dinner, so they tossed the empty taffy bag and headed for the pub. 

When they entered into the familiar air of chatter, laughter, and stale ale, they immediately spotted the couple snogging in a booth. 

“Oh for the love of-” Seamus muttered under his breath. 

Neville and Seamus took chairs opposite them and Luna sat down right beside Dean. 

Ginny eventually noticed them out of the corner of her eye, pulling away and wiping her sleeve across her mouth and when Dean had realized, he sat up straight, “Seamus! Neville!” He turned, nearly jumping out of his skin as he saw Luna just beside him, “Luna! Hi! You’re here too! Must not have noticed you all sitting down…” 

“Busy were you?” Seamus said and it felt as if a window had been left opened, a draft wafting over them.

Ginny, always ready to break the ice, looked between them before smiling over at Luna, “Did you find that book you were looking for?”

Once they got to talking about the magizoology books she’d been trying to find, Dean began to tell Seamus the latest football scores and soon the tension thawed out over a round of butterbeer. At some point the topic had changed to the dinners Ginny was having with the “Slug Club” and Neville realized he hadn’t gotten any further invitations and was a bit embarrassed to find he’d been cut out. 

He supposed he had never really done anything special to warrant a membership to some elite club. He didn’t play Quidditch - he had only ridden a broom once in his life before breaking his arm and calling off flying ever again. His grades were average besides herbology, which almost everyone but him believed to be a throwaway subject. The only courageous thing he’d done so far was fight off a bunch of Death Eaters, and that glimmer of fame only lasted a week at school before everyone remembered who he was. 

But he wasn’t the only one feeling out of place. Seamus’s face was now painted a light wash of red in irritation. He’d fall into a rambling story or try to recite some joke he’d heard, when Ginny would unknowingly interrupt him by messing around with her boyfriend - playing with his hands, touching his face, pinching his arm, and Dean would burst out giggling, kissing her cheek or teasing her back. 

Seamus must have been trying very hard not to take it personally, but if there was one thing Neville knew about him, it was that he hated being ignored.

“Excuse me,” It was all Seamus said before he shot up from his chair and walked out the front door.

The rest of them were left sitting dumbstruck as the door swung back into place. Dean looked to the window beside them where Seamus was seen walking away into the nautical twilight and Ginny mumbled, “What’s up with him?”

“He’s just been under the weather lately… he probably needs some air,” Neville got up, heading for the door, “I’ll go check on him.”

The cold air bit hard, but at least the rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles mirroring the last glints of sun against glowing orange clouds. He followed the direction he’d seen Seamus take, up the hill towards the quiet side of town. He could see his shadowy figure up ahead and called his name, picking up his pace until they were walking side by side. He’d like to blame his lack of breath as the reason for not saying anything to him, asking him to stop, to come back to the pub. He just didn’t know what words would convince him. So he followed him up a path that careened into some sort of wooded park, their heavy footsteps waking crows from their perches, shaking drops of rain from branches as they fell back into the sky. 

Seamus only slowed to a stop when they were high enough to see the whole village below, warm light from windows pooling across the ground, and far off in the distance the silhouette of the castle sat by the lake, watching the sun climb behind the hills and disappear.

“I’m being stupid,” His words made a mist of hot air float in front of his face.

“A bit.”

“I was feeling nauseous.”

“If you come back inside we can get you some water.”

“I’m just being stupid. Nothing’s wrong. I shouldn’t have walked out like that.”

“I don’t think they mind. I told them you weren’t feeling well.”

“No, of course they won’t mind, I’m sure they’d rather be alone anyway... _Christ it’s cold_ ,” Seamus cupped his hands to his mouth, blowing clouds into them. It _was_ freezing, but Neville was still burning from trying to catch up to him. Without a further thought, he rummaged in his pockets for the gloves he’d been wearing earlier, handing them over without a word.

“You sure?” Seamus asked, looking hopeful.

“Wasn’t using them anyway.”

“Cheers,” He was already stretching them over his hands and Neville dug his hands into his pockets. “Why do they have to be all over each other all the time? I haven’t seen him without her by his side since term started.”

“Well, it’s his first relationship… This is new for him.”

“He always says we can hang out later and then he forgets and… I _like_ Ginny. She’s funny and she’s wicked on the Quidditch pitch. She’s _cool_. I just want my friend back,” He punctuated his words by dipping the toe of his boot into a puddle, watching the reflection of the bare tree behind them ripple and distort.

“I know,” Neville reached out his hand, wanting to comfort him, but it hung in the space between them before retreating back to his pocket.

“There must be something wrong with me,” Seamus gave a dry laugh. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what…?”

“All of it. I don’t know. Why do they have to snog all the time? You’d think they’d get bored of it. I mean, you’re just smothering the other person with your mouth. That sounds gross.”

“Seamus, it’s just kissing.”

“What, like _you’ve_ ever kissed anyone?”

“I mean sort of… yeah?”

He frowned, his brown eyes turning on him, “Well?”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

Seamus shook his head, kicking the water again.

“I think it helps if you really like the person. You tend not to mind the smashing faces part so much.”

He gave a sardonic look down at the puddle, “I wouldn’t know.”

Neville wasn’t surprised. Seamus had always been all talk. When they were all too hyper to sleep, he’d hear him across the room rattling off a story about a girl he knew “back home”. Of course, she always had a different name and her hair had always changed color when he told of her good looks. “What about Mary? Or uh… Sarah?”

He huffed, giving him a sideways glance, “Well obviously I made that all up. Thought you knew that…” 

“Why?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was… I don’t know… I don’t know why.”

Seamus didn’t have to say it. He knew. 

Neville was just about to ask him if he was ready to go back to the pub when he heard him pipe up suddenly, “Do you want to…?”

Seamus looked him in the eye with more uncertainty than he had ever seen him express before, “Can we… I mean it’s just that I’ve never kissed anyone and… it’s…” 

It was hard to hear him mumble and stumble over words like this. Seamus always knew exactly what he wanted and what he wanted to say and he didn’t care what anyone else thought. And Neville just wanted to grab him by the face and tell him that everything was going to be okay. He wasn’t losing his best friend. Dean did love him. He’d always love him. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t even know why I asked. I just figured since it seemed like… You know what, never mind. It’s okay. Forget I said anything-”

“You’re too short.”

“ _Wow_ ,” A frown covered his face and his voice pitched an octave in offense, “Okay. Alright. No need to mock me. You could just say no. Asshole.”

“No! I just-” Neville was laughing despite himself, “Here-” He grabbed onto Seamus’s arms while he knelt down on the paved pathway, convincing Seamus down with him so they were both the same height. Though Neville was still an inch above him, they were much closer now. Close enough that every breath Seamus blew became butterscotch scented clouds between them. 

“Oh. Um.”

“Is this okay?” Neville asked.

Seamus nodded, looking around quickly to be sure they were alone, still trying to gauge the sincerity of the moment. From up close, he could see the faint stars reflecting in his eyes. Then again, they were probably just the lights from the village. Either way, they sparkled against the dark brown of his iris like glittering gold deep in a pond, until they fluttered close and he leaned forward, closing the distance in a single breath.

It was a soft kiss, as far as Neville could tell, he could barely remember what his first one had been like. This one lasted longer at least, long enough to realize just how nice it felt to be this close to someone, to feel the gloved hands holding onto the front of his coat, keeping him in place. 

When Seamus finally let go, pulling away and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he almost wanted to ask if they could try again. But Seamus was already standing back up, cursing the mud stains that formed on the knees of his pants, and holding out a hand to him, pulling him up from the ground in a valiant effort.

“We should probably-”

“Yeah.”

Neville wrapped his scarf up around his neck from where it had come undone while Seamus pulled his fingers from the gloves, handing them back and whispering a hushed, “Thanks.”

He nodded, putting them in his pockets and starting down the path beside him. Seamus kept veering off into the grass every once in a while as if he was dodging some invisible obstacle, but even in the growing darkness, he caught the smile creeping across his friend’s face.

By the time they got back to the pub, the bill had been paid and they all elected to return to the castle. It wasn’t until they entered the common room that they heard what had happened to Katie Bell. Hermione recited everything from the package and the opal necklace inside, Katie floating high in the air before crashing back to the ground screaming, and her subsequent trip to the infirmary. 

“And Harry’s got this ridiculous idea that…” She shook her head in disbelief, trying to laugh, “Harry thinks _Malfoy’s_ got something to do with it.”

“Malfoy?” Ginny repeated. 

“Well… I _did_ see the same necklace in- well, in Borgin and Burkes,” She then explained how they had followed a lone Malfoy into Knockturn Alley, listening in on his conversation with the shopkeeper, “He was saying something about… something about mending something and keeping something on reserve there. But we couldn’t really tell what it was. I went inside after Malfoy had gone and I did see that same necklace that was with Katie. I guess it _is_ a bit of a coincidence but...”

“But how would he get something like that past the security measures?” Dean asked.

“That’s what McGonagall said,” Hermione answered, “Not to mention, whatever it was he planned on buying was supposed to be something you couldn’t really walk around with - a necklace can be easily hidden. And besides he wasn’t even _in_ Hogsmeade today. Apparently, he was in detention.”

For a minute they all just sat there, mulling the story over.

“But why?” The words kept repeating themselves inside his head and he almost didn’t realize he had said them aloud, “Why would he try to… do something like that?”

“Well whoever it was who gave Katie the necklace, they were trying to get someone killed,” Hermione stated gravely. 

“Death Eaters…” Dean breathed out. No one else had wanted to say it.

Ginny sat up, “And what? Harry thinks Malfoy’s a Death Eater now?” 

Hermione nodded from where she rested her head in her hand, leaning against an armrest, “He’s convinced and nothing we say has any effect on him.”

“That’s a load of rubbish,” Seamus scoffed, “There’s no way they’d let some twat like him in.”

“Try telling that to him,” She said with finality, wishing them good night and heading up the stairs.

No one was much in the mood for a late night chat and one by one they headed up to their dorms, leaving Neville to stare into the crackling fire. All the cheerfulness he had felt earlier had been drained out of him and it was as if some old wound was being reopened, an uneasiness breaking out under his skin. He didn’t know how long he sat on the couch, but he stared at the flames long enough that when he closed his eyes to sleep that night, their burned impressions flickered behind his eyelids.

The following day in his charms class, Neville couldn’t help but watch Draco out of the corner of his eye from across the room, trying to glean some sort of answer from his demeanor, some explanation. He wasn’t any different from how he’d always been… had he? Though, even just last year he was likely to raise his hand in class or crack a joke under his breath to the other Slytherins. Even if he didn’t seem interested he would still pay attention to the professor and take notes. 

But he was distracted now, staring at his desk with a far off look in his eyes. When the class was asked to repeat after Flitwick and practice the wand movement, it would him take several moments of listening to everyone else reciting along before he was snapped out of his thoughts. 

When class had ended, Neville lingered, slowly packing away his things in his book bag, waiting for Draco to pass him on his way out. He wasn’t even sure what it was he was hoping for. Maybe a good look at his arms. He still hadn’t forgotten what the mark of a Death Eater looked like - couldn’t get it out of his mind since the incident at the Ministry. 

But his sleeves had been buttoned tightly around the wrist and when he walked past, he turned his face away, seemingly more interested in the cracks in the wall. It was as if Neville was a ghost, as if he wasn’t even there. And before he could exhale the breath he’d been holding onto, Draco was out the door, around the corner, and gone. 

It was the closest they had been in too long, and he hadn’t even spared him a glance. The last time he’d seen his face up close was when he appeared in the Daily Prophet. A monochrome photo of him and his mother, squinting under the blaring camera flashes, “ _Fallen from Grace_ ” in black ink above them. He must have reread the article a hundred times, waiting for the news of Lucius Malfoy’s arrest and guilty sentence to give him some sort of satisfaction. It was truth coming to light. Draco finally had to see the man for who he was, he could no longer turn a blind eye and ignore. And a man who had a hand in committing atrocities would finally see retribution. But still, an uneasy feeling lingered. There were still more Death Eaters walking free. Voldemort was still out there, waiting to strike. 

He decided to push the matter from his mind entirely. Harry was probably just on edge. When was he not? Each year he had known him, he’d grown more recluse, quicker to expect the worst in people, jumping into action at the first sign of trouble. It wasn’t his fault. He was constantly being thrust into danger without warning, having to watch people die, having to worry for the safety of his friends.

Neville had only had one run in with a bunch of people who wanted to kill him and even from that one incident he’d had nightmares. If Luna so much as pricked her finger, his heart would race and panic would strike, remembering what she had looked like, knocked unconscious at the Ministry, blonde hair streaked across her face. At night when they changed into their pajamas, dread sank low in his stomach anytime he glanced over at the red welts across Ron’s arms. And when Hermione greeted him in the morning as they walked down for breakfast, he could almost feel the weight of her limp body hoisted on his back, remembering the silent prayers he gave to every god and angel that her pulse would continue to beat against his spine.

He’d never forget how easy it could have been for them to have all died, then and there that night. Which only made him want to try his best to keep them all safe from harm.

These days he spent most of his time with Seamus, listening to him lament his dwindling friendship with Dean like a broken record. They never talked about the Hogsmeade trip, but it seemed like it had at least cooled him off. He was less likely to become agitated when they sat beside the couple for lunch, barely even flinched when they gave each other a kiss goodbye. 

Mostly he vented all his stress into the upcoming Quidditch match, grumbling about it as if he were team captain while he patted a snowman into place in the courtyard, “This match is gonna be a disaster, I can feel it. No offense to Ron, of course, he’s just a bit… shite. Sure, he did better than the other keeper at tryouts… what’s his name… McLaggen right? But, I mean, I’ve heard how he’s been playing during practice and… well, let’s just say don’t get your hopes up.”

Neville had an armful of stones and was carefully constructing its face, “You were saying earlier that Harry asked Dean to take Katie’s place on the team?”

“Yeah, oh god. I swore he was doing it on purpose, trust me, he had a look in his eye. Harry’s always had it out for me, I’m telling you,” Neville knew that wasn’t true but he knew it was pointless to try and convince him otherwise.

“‘ _Blimey_ !’” Seamus did a very unconvincing British accent, trying to impersonate Dean, “‘ _Can’t wait to tell Ginny_ !’ Fuck off. I was _right_ there. And either way what’s Ginny gonna care? Why wouldn’t he want to gloat to _me_?”

“Well she’s on the team. It’s probably going to be fun for them to play together right?”

“Yeah I bet it is,” He said bitterly, shoving a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Firecracker into the face of the snowman for a nose, “Did you get invited to Slughorn’s Christmas party?”

“Well… Sort of… He needs people to volunteer as waiters…” He remembered when the old man had stopped him in the hall while on his way to the greenhouses - how he had barely even remembered his surname while asking.

Seamus frowned before barking out a laugh, “He’s invited you to hand out drinks? Well, are you gonna do it?”

Neville gave a shrug, “It’s the only way of getting in…”

“Oh, please,” Seamus groaned, “No party is good enough to make you hand out appetizers to all your teachers. No way.” Taking his wand from his pocket, he lit the end of the firecracker, stepping back and watching the sparks fly as the poor snowman’s head exploded in a cloud of white mist.

\--

Emerald green flickers of moonlight reflecting through the depths of the frozen lake and into the Slytherin common room gave an eerie shine to the deep purple suit Blaise had thrown on, glittering off the intricately designed cufflinks Pansy was helping into place.

“Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re going,” Pansy complained, “I still think you should’ve declined in protest.”

“What, just because your boyfriend didn’t get invited to a popularity party?”

Draco was sitting on a couch on the other side of the room pretending to read, but he knew Blaise wasn’t trying to be subtle. Even with everyone loud and crowded in the dungeon on a Friday night, it wasn’t too difficult to tune into any conversation. 

“ _No_ . I meant because he invited the likes of Granger and _Potter_. And that Weasley girl too. I know you can’t stand her… And he’s not my boyfriend. He barely even talks to me anymore,” She added quickly in a low voice he almost didn’t catch.

“Don’t worry, I’m the absolute last person who wants to pry into your love life,” She gave him a playful shove at that. “Anyway, I’m only going so I have a reason to wear this suit. It’s a nice break from the awful things this school passes off as a uniform. They’re like prison rags but with all the silky smoothness of sandpaper.”

“If only we were all blessed with your fashion senses,” Her voice dripped with sarcasm and she clicked the other cuff into place, smoothing her hand over the sleeves. “You never told me who you were taking with you. I’m firmly against the whole party in the first place, but I’m still offended I wasn’t your first choice.”

“It was mercy, on my part, not inviting you along. Anyway, you’ve never heard of her.”

“Oh?”

“Ravenclaw. Seventh-year.”

“Seventh?” Her tone lilted with piqued interest.

“She’s the team’s Keeper.”

“Hang on I know this one…” 

“Lydia Kaddouri.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Like I said.”

“Then why-?”

She continued interrogating him as she walked him to the door before she had to cut it short, waving him off. When Pansy turned back around, she immediately locked eyes with Draco before he tried to look invested in the book again. He scanned each line, though he read nothing, as he saw her sit down beside him out of the corner of his eye.

“You can drop the book now, I know you’re not actually reading it.”

He sat up straighter, coughing under his breath, but nonetheless lowered the book into his lap.

“Are you going to go sneaking around again?”

That made him shoot her a look.

“Just because you were a prefect last year doesn’t mean you get the same privileges. And sooner or later the other prefects are going to catch on.”

“What do you mean ‘sneaking around’?” He asked unkindly.

She shrugged, “You keep coming back to the common room at late hours. And you might have everyone else fooled, but I’m not buying the idea that you keep getting all these detentions.”

“But I _am_.”

“Are you going out again tonight?”

He gave her a side glance and she simply raised an eyebrow.

“Has it got to do with…?” Her eyes lowered to the sleeve covering his forearm.

“None of your business.”

“Don’t know why you tell Crabbe and Goyle everything, and yet-”

“I _don’t_ tell them everything. They’re smart enough not to ask too many questions,” And they both had fathers already involved in it all. Draco only wondered at what age they’d be given the mark. Pansy was still clean. She didn’t have anything to do with Death Eaters, and he only wanted things to stay that way.

He stood, leaving the book on a side table, “I’ve got to ask Snape for some Dreamless Sleep.” He didn’t bother coming up with a better lie if she’d only see through it, “Won’t be long.”

“Don’t get caught.”

Draco thanked the music that echoed throughout the castle, covering the sound of his footsteps as he took every hidden staircase and narrow corridor he knew up to the seventh floor undetected. He could hear the muffled voices rising and falling, laughter and merriment carrying through the walls, as if nothing was wrong. Nothing _was_ wrong, in their world. The great beast looming in the distance was still far enough away that they could forget their troubles and their worries, if only for a few hours. He couldn’t even imagine it, couldn’t remember what it felt not to have fear weighing down on him every waking moment. What he wouldn’t give… 

“Oi! I knew I heard someone shuffling around up here!”

_For fuck’s sake._

He heard Filch’s growling voice first before he saw him marching towards him in the light of torches springing to life across the wall, his wrinkled face pulled into a scowl, “What do you think you’re doing out of bed at this hour?”

He pulled a blank expression over his face, thinking quickly, “I must have the wrong floor, I was on my way to Slughorn’s.”

“Let’s see the invitation then.”

 _Bollocks._ He wondered if he’d be able to transfigure a bit of lint in his pocket without the caretaker noticing.

“I don’t got all night!”

He made a show of reaching through each of his pockets, “Must’ve forgotten to bring it.”

“Not to worry,” Filch grabbed him by the collar, dragging him along, “I’ll see that you can explain it all to him yourself.” 

Had wanting more time to work on the vanishing cabinet really been worth getting caught, hauled down a flight of stairs, and shoved in front of Slughorn and however many other well dressed pricks, including Potter of all people, who was grinning into his glass of cider like it was Christmas morning? 

“Found this one lurking the halls. Claims he got lost on his way here. Did you send him an invitation?”

Draco wrenched himself free from his grip, “All right, I wasn’t invited! I was trying to gatecrash, happy?”

“No, I’m not!” said Filch, a statement at complete odds with the glee on his face. “You’re in trouble, you are! Nighttime prowling’s out, unless you’ve got permission.” 

“That’s all right, Argus, that’s all right,” said Slughorn, waving a hand. “It’s not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we’ll forget any punishment. You may stay, Draco.”

 _Great_. This was the worst possible scenario he could’ve ended up with. Now he’d have to actually attend this stupid party, take a glass and stand in the corner until he could slip out unnoticed. He contorted his face into a smile, “Thank you sir. Your generosity knows no bounds. My grandfather always did speak very highly of you.”

“Yes, yes well- a fine man that Abraxus, wasn’t he? I remember one time-” The old man, his face a pink drunken sheen, blathered on in a meandering anecdote that he wasn’t even sure had anything to do with his grandfather after all. Draco nodded in an attempt at politeness, glancing around the room for some sort of escape. 

Blaise was talking to the Ravenclaw girl he had mentioned, her dark hair braided carefully down her shoulders. When he finally managed to catch his attention, Blaise only rolled his eyes, shaking his head and delved back in his conversation. 

Far away he remembered him mentioning who had been invited to the little Slug Club meeting on the train. Hadn’t he said Longbottom had been there, of all people? Dread spiked his pulse. Was he here? Had he seen the horrible display of Filch dragging him in? He did another quick glance over the room, careful to nod occasionally to Slughorn’s continued rambling. But he saw no sign of him and relief as well as an odd twinge of disappointment filled him.

“I’d like a word with you, Draco,” Snape’s jet black robes appeared suddenly in his view, drawing him from his thoughts and he wondered how he’d managed to slink up beside him without his notice.

“Oh, now, Severus,” Slughorn hiccupped “It’s Christmas, don’t be too hard-” 

“I’m his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be. Follow me, Draco,” He said curtly.

Draco gave one last nod to Slughorn, relieved to be rid of him. He followed Snape out of the thick and crowded air, back into the dim corridor, a bout of laughter muffling behind them. Snape stopped before an empty classroom, whisking the door open and watching him with a sobering look until Draco reluctantly stepped inside. Dark shadows played in the corners of the room behind desks and chairs and wall hangings and he checked for any paintings he’d have to worry about. They’d all been watching him carefully since term started and he knew he wasn’t just imagining it. 

Shutting the door behind himself, casting a quick spell under his breath, Snape rounded on him, “I only wish to know how you believed this truly brilliant plan would turn out. Getting caught _sneaking around_ after hours was intended, surely?”

“If you only brought me here to rub it in, you can spare the insults. I have more important things to attend to.”

“You’re being _careless_ . If _he_ were to know of each of your little slip-ups, no doubt you wouldn’t last to see your exams. You should feel lucky there isn’t someone else in my place- one who would rather report each of your failures back to him.”

“Oh yes, I must _really_ be fortunate.” 

“You’re not taking this seriously. You’re making sloppy mistakes. One might even misinterpret your actions as _purposefully_ failing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The incident with Miss Bell."

“I didn’t have anything to do with that. Don’t know where you’ve come up with that.”

“Potter has already accused you. In front of Professor McGonagall, no less. You are being watched now. You cannot afford any more mistakes like this. If you are expelled-”

“I said I didn’t do it, alright! She must have had an enemy after her or something but I didn’t-!” He noticed Snape was staring through him and for a moment he felt as if his head were being dipped backward into thick water, a chill running through his scalp and down his neck. At once, he snapped out of it, locking up the confines of his mind, reinforcing the walls and burrowing behind them. _How dare he._ “ _Don’t_ even try that with me. It won’t work.” 

The professor’s eyebrow raised ever so slightly, mildly impressed, “Perhaps you aren’t as ill-prepared as you make yourself out to be. Let me guess, _Auntie Bella_ gave you lessons over the holidays?” Draco despised the mocking deadpan in which he spoke, but he didn’t rise to it. Let the man think what he wanted.

Snape was not used to having to pry answers from him. In all the sixteen years he had known him, they had kept a respectful rapport, one of mentor and student, and at times even paternal, as he was a close confidant of his father. All of which had been carried off as easily as leaves in the wind. If he ever held this man in high regard, it was all gone now. 

“What secrets are you keeping from your master?”

“I’ve got nothing to hide from _him_ . It’s _you_ I don’t want butting in.”

There was a pause, as Snape lowered his eyes to the tie around Draco’s collar, and when he spoke it was almost as if his voice had softened, if he was even capable of it, “So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference?”

There were more reasons than that. None that Snape deserved to hear. He didn’t deserve to know the betrayal he felt. He wouldn’t expose a vulnerability as strong as that.

Deep down he knew it wasn’t Snape who had got him into this mess. For that he could blame his dear father. But his whole life he had known Snape, he had trusted him. While away from home, he knew he could always rely on him to keep him safe. But then… why hadn’t he tried to stop this all from happening. He knew reasonably there wasn’t anything he could have done to change the Dark Lord’s mind. No one had that power. But why couldn’t he have tried. Everyone he trusted were all just letting this happen to him. As if it was normal. As if it didn’t matter. _Why did it feel like no one else cared?_

“You realize that, had anyone else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there-”

“Go ahead! Give me detention! Send me to Dumbledore, for all I care!”

The man’s eyebrows furrowed together, wrinkles creasing his forehead and making him look ten years older, “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things.”

“You’d better stop telling me to come to your office then!”

“ _Listen to me!_ ” His hands had clasped around the green hood of his robe, all patience gone, “I am trying to _help you_ … I swore to your mother I would protect you. _I made the vow_.”

It felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, ice freezing his nerves, “ _Let go of me_.”

There was a moment where he wasn’t sure what would happen next, Snape’s dark eyes boring into him. Finally, the man blinked, unclenching his hands in a sharp movement and standing back up to his full height. Draco couldn’t match his stare anymore, turning away from him and hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in his hands.

“I don’t need your protection. I have a plan. It’s going to work,” He ran his fingers through his hair, combing it down, “It’s just… taking longer than expected.”

Snape spoke slowly, articulating himself as if Draco were hard of hearing, “If you tell me what it is, I can help you.”

“I don’t want your help. You’ll only get in my way.”

“You’re acting like a child. If it weren’t for that blunder with that necklace- _don’t_ _try to deny it_ ,” He sneered when Draco tried to talk over him, “If it weren’t for that, I might’ve believed you capable. As it is, you’re not even capable of staying out of trouble. I’m already getting teachers coming to me about your missing assignments. You’re drawing too much attention to yourself-” 

“What does it matter!” He could feel a migraine coming on.

“It _matters_ because the more suspicion you garner the less likely it is you’ll be able to succeed when-”

“That’s what this is about then isn’t it,” He hit him with a cold look, “You’re scared because if I fail, you go down too. Well tough luck, I’m doing this on my own. I’m not about to let you steal this from me.”

There was a moment where it seemed Snape might blow up at him again, but he shut his mouth, gritting his teeth and shaking his head, “You really are just a child…” Something terrifying lurked just behind his eyes. Grief? Regret? He blinked, and it was all gone. “You don’t have any idea why you were chosen, do you?”

“I was _chosen_ to redeem my father.”

“You were chosen to _punish_ your father,” He waited for those words to settle in. Though his voice was barely above a whisper, there was a furious rage about him, “The Dark Lord was displeased with your father’s lapse in loyalty over the years and his failure at the ministry only fed the fire. So he gives Lucius’s only son the impossible task, something even _he_ has not managed to accomplish. And when you are unable to do it, he can take your life as payment for your father’s mistake.”

“ _No_ . I _can_ do it.”

He squinted down at him, “It was never a question whether you could do it. He wants you to fail. It’s what he’s counting on. You need my help. Whether you want to admit it or not. You can keep running around, delaying the inevitable, pretending you have it all under control, but when the time comes, you’re going to need someone you can trust. And while the sweet release of death sounds rather tempting, I’m afraid I have other obligations I must see to first. So whether you like it or not you will be open with me about your plans so you do not end up making another grave error such as tonight.”

“ _You_ made the choice to take that vow. Not me,” He walked past him to the door, but Snape caught him by the arm, trying to stop him. But before he could start up another argument, Draco cut him off with a glare with more fire than the sun, jerking out of his grip and slamming the door behind him on the way out. He didn’t care if it drew attention to anyone else wandering the halls. He didn’t care if the partygoers heard from across the corridor. He didn’t care.

After everyone else had gone home for the holidays, Draco took every opportunity to hole himself up in the Room of Requirement. He spent hours at a time repairing the cabinet, only emerging so he could be seen at dinner, sitting alone at the Slytherin table, and then he’d head back up, working until he finally passed out on one of the couches. 

It was the first time in his life he had ever felt truly exhausted. He had heard of wizards draining the use of their magic to the point where they’d be unable to produce anything at all. And only after a few days into Winter vacation, he was barely able to cast something as simple as Lumos, light flickering and wavering in and out.

He damn near snapped his wand in two out of frustration. After all the time he’d spent, all the hours he’d poured into this plan and it was going to be ruined because he was _tired_? He genuinely tried to get a good night’s rest, forcing himself to eat a few bites of toast in the morning before going back to the cabinet, and yet he still found he was powerless. Each time he muttered an incantation under his breath, it felt like he was being suffocated, like the walls were closing in on him, his collar tightening around his neck until it threatened to choke, and he’d have to sit on the floor and wait for the feeling to pass before trying again, and again, and again.

All too soon, the new year passed and the rest of the school returned in chattering crowds. Classes began again and he was struck with the realization that if they were asked to cast something, he’d be completely unable to do so. Thankfully with most of his classes focusing on book work and theoretical study at the moment, he could scrape by. On days they were meant to work practically, he found himself skipping off to the bathroom and hiding out until the hour was gone. He knew by the looks his teachers gave him when he returned for his things that they weren’t falling for any of it, but they didn’t try to call him out on it either. Least of all Snape, who seemed to ignore him entirely. And he was all the more grateful for that.

Even with the routine and faces and voices to fill up the empty space in the castle and drown out the paranoia inducing silence, he still found himself unable to sleep most nights. He’d lie there, staring at the patterns in the canopy above, waiting for sleep to come, even if it meant putting himself through anxious dreams. But by the time light finally pooled into the room, his eyes would still be wide open.

One of the very few nights he’d felt overwhelmingly tired, after staying up late finishing three essays, he was able to drift off into sleep, only to be woken up in a cold sweat by a searing pain in his arm, as if a hot iron were being pressed down upon him. He fought to stifle a pained groan, hissing between his clenched teeth. 

The Dark Lord was calling him. 

He dressed quickly, careful not to wake his sleeping roommates who were still snoring softly, dreaming peacefully - all the while he had to fight to keep calm, his breaths coming out short and quick, panic rising in his chest. He shut the door silently on his way out, shivering in the damp, cool air of the common room. Through the windows, emerald patterns of moonlight reflecting against the walls, the kelp forest casting looming shadows that made Draco look over his shoulder more than once, feeling as though he were being watched. 

Finally stepping before Snape’s office, he made no effort to keep quiet, knocking harshly every few seconds, desperate now. His arm was only burning more vividly as he held it tight, and he was sure if he didn’t do something soon, the whole thing would fall off. There came the sound of rustling from behind the door and after a few moments, Snape was there with a lit wand in his face. If Draco had been able to think beyond the agony clouding his mind, he would have wondered why he was already fully dressed. Did the man never sleep? Or had he given up trying long ago?

Before Draco could explain himself, Snape had already latched onto his wrist - muttering something about “keeping the blithering to a minimum” - guiding him out of the dungeons, up stairs, through corridors, until they were out on the lawn, snow crunching beneath their feet. He was being dragged at an awkward angle and nearly tripped once or twice, but Snape made sure he kept moving, further and further until they broke through the line of trees marking the edge of the forest.

“Brace yourself.” The professor snapped and with no further warning, a jarring crack broke the air, a flash of light, and the feeling of spinning, warping, wind whipping around them harshly, until finally the trees had all disappeared from sight. He fought the urge to puke as he glanced up at the sharp sliver of moon caught behind the silhouetted manor.

A hand fell on his shoulder, trying to guide him across the gravel driveway, but he shrugged it off, following behind Snape through the wrought iron gates, dissipating like smoke. They climbed up marble steps, front doors swinging open at their approach, and swept down a long hallway, paintings following them with dull, grey eyes. When they’d made it into the drawing room, he noticed shattered porcelain, scorch marks digging into the floorboards, and chairs destroyed until there was nothing but splintered fragments of wood. Yaxley, who had been slouching in an armchair near the entrance, sprang up as if he’d been waiting for them to arrive.

“ _Finally_. He’s in quite a state so you better have some kind of good news to bring him or else-”

“Where,” Snape cut him off, “is he.”

Yaxley led them along a dimly lit passageway, right to the door of Lucius’s old study, waving a noncommittal hand towards it. The man’s mouth pulled into a hard line and he turned back the way he came. Draco could feel the pain dissolving from his arm and let go of the tight grip he held on it, but a sinking fear was settling fast in his gut. He glanced up at Snape, who merely gave him a sharp look and then to the door. It was as he was raising his fist to knock that he heard the familiar hiss from the other side and the door cracked open.

“Come in,” Draco was halfway through the entrance when the voice added, “You too Severus.”

The room was just as it had been throughout Draco’s childhood and he was reminded of when he used to dash in from playing outdoors just to greet his father when he had come home from his business trips. He remembered bringing in wildflowers, climbing on his back, being thrown up in the air only to be caught in his arms again. A wave of emotion got caught in his throat, and he swallowed it back down - occluding far behind the walls in his mind.

“Come here, my boy, come closer,” The voice whispered to him from the large black leather armchair seated by the fireplace, flames dancing in the reflection along the polished floorboards. Nagini had draped herself across the back of the chair, hooking around and laying across his lap. From somewhere in the room, he could hear a faint squeaking, but he kept his eyes focused on the man illuminated in the warm light.

“How has school treated you? I take it everything is suiting you just fine?”

“Yes, my lord.”

A silence fell and he could hear every crackle as the fire ate away at its log, the sharp ticking of a clock on the wall, the faint rustle of leaves against the windowpane as the midnight sky peered in. He wondered if his racing heartbeat echoed loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Any particular reason you have allowed your headmaster to survive this long?”

“My lord?”

“Have you used a particularly slow acting poison, perhaps?”

“N-no… my lord.”

“Draco when you were given the honor to put an end to an old man’s life, were you perhaps under the impression you could execute your plan any old time… years, perhaps, from now?”

“No, my lord.”

“No,” He repeated simply, smiling insincerely at Snape, as if they were all laughing at some joke he didn’t get. His pale, skeletal hand gripped his wand, raising it in the air, pointing towards a corner of the room cloaked in shadow. There was the sound of a cage door creaking, a faint scuttering. And then there was a live mouse levitating in the air, floating towards the chair. 

Draco just kept his eyes on the ceiling, trying to stay still, trying to keep any ounce of emotion from his face, building up the walls around him. But he could still hear the stretch of fanged jaws opening wide, could only listen to the sounds of Nagini swallowing the poor thing whole.

He knows it's just a mouse. He knows it’s what a snake ought to do. He knows too (only by word of mouth) that this snake has eaten far worse - he’s heard the awful tales. But that doesn’t keep away the feeling of disgust in his stomach.

“Remarkable creature, isn’t she? Efficient. Tactful. She doesn’t waste time worrying about _how_ she should kill her prey. She knows what she must do. It is instinctual. It is what sets her apart from all the inferior creatures she feasts on. If she were to ever lose that quality about her… If she took too long in making her decision… If she refused to take part in her grisly ritual… Well one can guess what might happen to her. She’d… wither away,” He twittered his fingers in the air, pantomiming, before resting his hand back on where she lay, petting her lovingly across her scales. “Or else… be consumed by something larger than her… Perhaps we could _all_ learn something from her. What do you say, Draco?”

The moment he opened his mouth, he realized he wouldn’t be able to stop the quivering in his voice, “I’m- I _am_ working on something sir, if you would give me more time-”

“I did not call you here so I could listen to excuses. I want _results_. Something tells me you do not take me seriously-”

“I do, my lord.”

“Perhaps you did not believe me when I told you the consequences, should you fail-”

“No, I-I know- I won’t-”

“My lord, if I may speak on the boy’s behalf-” He heard Snape interject from behind him as he stepped forward into the firelight. 

The blank space of skin where the man’s eyebrows should be, raised, intrigued, as if allowing him to speak. 

“I have been monitoring him closely and though he has been quite slow and methodical in his actions, I believe he is close to cornering his target. It is in my opinion that there is no need to… get rid of him… just yet.”

“Oh Severus,” Sharp teeth shined in the glimmering light as a grin broke across his pale face, “You didn’t believe I was about to kill him just now, did you?”

The blood racing through Draco now turned to ice. The way his mortality - his very life - was being tossed up in the air was enough to drive him mad. But he held onto the fortress in his mind. He ignored the mouse-shaped lump in the snake’s throat.

“Your intuition has gone dull, I’m afraid,” Red eyes flickered back on Draco as he forced out an unnatural laugh, “Did you think I was going to set Nagini on you?” He was looking to them, as if expecting them to join in and laugh as well. “No. We all need reminders sometimes. It isn’t something to be ashamed of.” 

Another sickly silence fell. And then, at last, between the blink of an eye, a wand flicked in his direction, a hoarse voice cursing, “ _Crucio!_ ” 

And just like that, Draco fell to the ground.

The world around him began to melt into blinding stars in the back of his eyes. It was like his insides were being liquefied, like he’s being torn apart piece by bloody piece, a thousand needles piercing his skin from the inside out. Somewhere far away he could hear someone screaming and it was quite a while before he realized it came from his own choked throat.

“I've found even the most loyal of followers can be reluctant to their task without some motivation… _Crucio!”_ Another bolt of lightning tore through his spine, “Your dear professor can attest to that.”

Draco could not see through the tears in his eyes. It was all a blur of black and blue and warm flickering orange hues. He felt the walls crumbling inside him, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care. He can’t even remember what it was like before, can’t even fathom living without all this pain rippling through him, but he knew that he just wanted it to _stop._ Wanted the lights to go out and the world to go quiet.

“Now Draco. Let us be honest with each other. Will you kill your headmaster like I have asked you to? Or will you continue scurrying around your cage?”

The words floated towards him but he couldn’t quite decipher them - couldn’t quite make out that the words were even for him. They were nothing but words.

“ _Answer your master when he speaks to you!”_

“...My lord.” Through the drowning buzz in his ears, he picked out Snape’s voice. 

“ _Crucio_!” Another jolt ran through him, no less excruciating than the first two. Somehow he managed to roll himself onto his stomach, burrowing his face into the crook of his arm. At least he could hide his tears, at least he could save some shred of dignity he had left.

There was a bout of silence until it was apparent Draco could not and would not speak. He fully believed he was going to be cursed again, unconsciously flinching on himself, preparing for the worst. He didn’t know how long he'd been there. Perhaps hours, days, years, had passed as he lay there, and he would have been none the wiser. Time sprawled and unraveled itself until a sigh fell and shattered it all back into place.

“Severus, I’m done.”

There came the sound of ravens’ wings, wind rustling a fir tree, and Draco realized it must have been Snape’s robes. He knelt beside him, helping him up, impossible as it seemed. The room around him spun precariously for a moment, tasting copper in his mouth, until he was pulled into a standing position, and guided out of the room. 

The door had shut behind them and he could vaguely see his mother in front of him, placing a hand on him, helping in guiding him back into the drawing room. He didn’t want anyone touching him right now, feeling like a cornered animal, but he knew without them propping him up he would be back on the floor again. The world was still swirling around him and he felt like he was going to be sick, swallowing down thickly.

Through the muffled ringing in his ear he caught his mother’s voice, terrified and low, “You need to sit down, you look like you might faint again… Your room is all made up for you, you should get some rest.”

He fought with every instinct inside him that wanted to lie down and never get up again, working up the strength just to protest, “ _No_. I’m fine.”

“You’ve been through too much in one night. You need your sleep-” She reached a hand to cup his face, but he squirmed away from her touch. 

“I’m not staying here.”

“Darling, you can’t Apparate and walk all that distance again, you can barely stand-”

“I’m going back tonight-” She reached for him again and he spit venom, “- _Don’t touch me!_ ”

She retracted her hand, mortified by his sudden outburst, looking to Snape for help.

“It is… quite late... He has class in the morning and I’m sure no one would want to call attention to his sudden disappearance.”

“Just say it was an emergency,” She was getting desperate, “Just say he took an early train.”

“We’re leaving,” Draco grabbed the sleeve of the professor’s robe, attempting to pull him towards the doors, “Come on, _Severus_.”

At that, Snape ripped his arm away from him, giving both Malfoys a harsh look before striding out the doors, Draco following closely behind at a slower pace, focusing all his strength on each step and willing himself not to faint. The freezing early morning air steadied him as he watched pale blue and purple light creeping along the horizon silhouette the great white peacocks perched atop the towering hedges. 

Just as they passed through the gate, the professor turned on his heel, causing Draco to nearly collide into him. The man was an expert at concealing his true feelings, but Draco knew he was seething, looking so enraged, he thought he might hear the rumbling of thunder. 

“Under absolutely no circumstances are you _ever_ allowed to refer to me as anything other than your professor. The next time you tug on my arm you will lose your hand - I don’t care _whose_ son you are, you still owe me respect. _Are we clear?_ ”

 _Respect_. Draco once held this man in the highest regards, even idolized him. What was he now? A hypocrite. A coward. There was nothing about him to respect.

“ _Oh fuck off_ ,” Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he would regret saying it later, but in his half delusional and exhausted state, he really didn’t care. 

Anger rose in the man’s eyes, a sneer wrinkling his face, and just as his mouth opened to deliver the reprimand of a lifetime, something stopped him, quelling the fire. Severus gripped his arm tight enough to hurt and with a crack of air, they apparated away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year is the unofficial title of this chapter
> 
> O btw the spell snape casted before confronting draco was muffliato lol so harry didn’t hear any of that. Obviously in meta we know that harry was trying to listen in but draco doesn’t know that spell so i didn’t mention exactly what was used. Just yeah fyi hope that makes sense


End file.
